Dies Irae
by HuntressDaugher
Summary: For eight years, Goodnight has known Billy, ever since he came barreling into his life in a Texas bar. For eight years, Billy has listened to all of Goodnight's spiels and soliloquies, but not once has Goodnight uttered a single word about what life was like before the war. But they both know Goodnight has a past that he just can't seem to get rid of.
1. Chapter 1

**After many exchanges of messages with warqueenfuriosa (lots and lots of thanks) about Goody's life before the war, what led up to it, and the things that continued to haunt him, this is the result. As a warning, it'll probably be a pretty slow build. When Goody is with Billy, the year is 1877, and when he's in Louisiana, it's 1855.**

 **Disclaimer: I wish I owned Magnificent Seven, but sadly, I do not.**

"You ever been in love?" Billy asks as they pass by this town's saloon, and Goodnight's first reaction is to laugh. Leave it to Billy to make him laugh on today of all days.

"What, have you taken up with one of the hussies?"

Billy shrugs noncommittally and pushes open the door to their hotel. "I just ask. I don't know that about you."

He falters on the steps while Billy continues up in his graceful way. If it had been one of the things that attracted him, it was also one of the things Goodnight hated: Billy's quiet sincerity. He wants to believe this was just a silly question, but Billy isn't one for those; he'll jest and kid, but he never does something without reason, and he certainly never asks personal questions. It's this quality in which Goodnight finds something to respect, and he feels that Billy is entitled to an answer, no matter how much he doesn't want to give him one. A familiar empty ache enters his chest as his words, so quiet and distant that they hardly seem like his, leave his mouth. "Once. In another lifetime."

After he's toed off his boots and slipped out of everything but his underwear, Billy leans back on his bed. Uncharacteristically, he hadn't heard the implication that Goodnight had no interest in touching on the subject—or perhaps he just didn't care—and he gives the older man something like a smile. "Can I guess?"

"You can guess all you want, but you won't figure anything out." Goodnight reaches for his flask and tips it back against his lips, only to find that it's empty. What a goddamn perfect time.

"She was the—what do they call them—the belle of the county, spent her days strolling under a parasol, and had all the men falling all over her," Billy tries, the corners of his mouth turned up in a way that only Goodnight can recognize.

Goodnight closes his eyes. This was not a conversation he'd ever planned on having with anyone ever again, not even Billy, despite how close they'd grown. He'd left that part of him far behind on the banks of a Louisiana creek some twelve years ago. Or so he'd tried. He gets off his own bed to search for their liquor stock and brings the bag with him. This could take a while, and he has no intention of doing it alone.

For a moment, Goodnight doesn't speak, but stares distantly at the wall. Finally, he takes the cork off the bottle. "First of all, we lived in Louisiana and had parishes, not counties. And the name was Augusta Evercreech from Saltmore Hall. She liked to read under the willow by the creek, had the curliest black hair you ever did see, and had the Devil himself in the form of sisters."

"Did you call her Gus?" Billy's voice after the pause sounds almost timid, a rare characteristic from him, so different from the assured man he usually is.

Goodnight's head snaps up, eyes narrowed at Billy accusingly, whose face is as stony as always. Had the other man gone through his things? As much as he trusts Billy, he imagines him rifling through his packs, finding their letters, everything he'd managed to salvage, and he feels incredibly betrayed. "How'd you know?"

Billy looks him in the eye, and Goodnight knows he isn't lying. "You talk in your sleep."

000

One by one, the carriages came rolling up the road in a cloud of dust towards Fair Oaks. As each pulled to a stop, Mr. Aaron Magee and his eldest son Micah reached up to help the ladies out in a flurry of skirts and lace, hoops and crinolines. The Magee men would shower each girl with enough compliments to seem charming, and the girl would blush and move on to kiss Mrs. Kathleen Magee.

From the sides, Goodnight Robicheaux gathered with a few other gentlemen and watched as each lady alighted from her carriage. First came the Jarreau family in their famous yellow carriage with their infamous red hair flaming, fire emerging from the sun. Olive and Opal were the two sisters, Olive just making her debut after a line of brothers and Opal.

The Millers were next, with all five boys riding up on their horses and momentarily distracting the two hosts from helping down the fair-haired ladies in the Verret carriage. They came tumbling out in a whirlwind of overwhelming energy, sweet, silly fools the lot of them: there was Blanche, desperate for a proposal by Elam Miller before she turned into an old maid; Minerva, the petite youngest; and the twins, Hattie and Mathilde, who moved together in simultaneous raucousness.

"Oh good. Here comes the party," Goodnight heard the man to his left, Ames Rubadeau say. Goodnight fiddled with a cigar in his fingers, twirling it but not smoking, and laughed. The Verret girls were lively to say the least. He looked into Ames' face and saw the other man watching the sisters with a smile he had not seen before.

"And we know how you love a party."

Ames turned his smile to Goodnight and poked him in the chest. "You just keep your eyes on the unclaimed."

A red carriage came to a stop, and Mr. Magee opened the door. Micah held out his hand, and a little gloved one took it. Out stepped a girl with a head full of tight black curls and a bright smile, neck blushing at whatever Micah said.

"Who's that?" Goodnight asked, feeling like he'd seen her face though he was unable to put a name with it. She was lovely enough not to be quite plain, and upon first impressions, seemed quaint enough.

"Miss Augusta Evercreech," Ames said, to which Goodnight whistled and shook his head. "She came out last summer after Mardi Gras. Currently unclaimed."

When Ames said that, it clicked in Goodnight's mind why she was so familiar. Besides the social events where their paths had crossed somewhat in the past, the girl in question was almost a smaller version of Salome Evercreech Saucier; almost, but not quite, and mainly because she had a smile on her face. The three oldest Evercreech girls, who had lived at the plantation to the south of the Robicheauxes, were known—aside from their breathtaking beauty—for a few rather unsavory qualities, but Augusta had not garnered that same strange fame as her sisters. Goodnight shook his head again. "I'll try my hand at one of the Verret girls before I ever try an Evercreech. Forgot there was one after Oceane. I recognize her now. Fellows should have learned their lesson after Anastasie, but somehow they still managed to get all caught up in the other two."

Ames merely laughed. "Goodnight, I'm sure glad you're home. Why'd you even go off anyways?"

"Let's put it this way: now I can run the fields and recite Shakespeare."

Ames rolled his eyes. "You could do that before you left. I can speak French, and that's good enough for me. I've got all the women that I need."

"One Verret? That's all you can handle." Ames shoved him away with a laugh, telling him to go find them some liquor. "Lord knows you'll need it!" Goodnight called over his shoulder, and Ames' own unsmoked cigar hit Goodnight's back.

He meandered through the crowd in search of Micah Magee, who would undoubtedly have whiskey, and was forced to stop repeatedly by people welcoming him home. He'd spent the last two and a half years at university in Charleston, studying the classics and devouring every piece of information he'd come across. Yet, as exciting as his studies had been, and despite the friends he'd made, he'd missed Louisiana and New Orleans. He wanted to hear the drawl of the Deep South that held no effect on impeccable French, and he wanted to roam the bustling streets of the city. He wanted to come home. And besides, tensions had been getting too high for him in South Carolina.

Goodnight had enjoyed seeing Ames, his childhood friend who did not share a passion for knowledge and who was more likely to be caught in a dress than with a book in his hand. They'd spent four days of the past week riding their horses and shooting guns, while Ames had tried to fill in everything that Goodnight had missed. Letters had taken care of the major things, but they had not mentioned the Millers' ball where a polecat scared the Pajud horses and the fit that Oceane, the third Evercreech sister, had thrown at the smell, nor did they mention the hunting party where Amos Abellard had nearly blown off his own foot.

"Goodnight!" Micah cried, throwing an arm around Goodnight's shoulders and teetering unsteadily, proving that he was wasting no time in getting drunk. "Good to see you! Found any ladies you want an introduction to?"

"Thank you, but the only introductions I'm seeking are to a couple of bottles of whiskey."

Micah wagged a finger towards Goodnight. "Ah, you sonuvabitch, you. You know me so well. Thomas, fetch my friend Mr. Robicheaux here two—"

"Three," Goodnight said, just to test exactly how drunk Micah was.

"Three bottles of whiskey," Micah told the nearest negro boy. When the boy had run off, Micah clapped Goodnight on the shoulders. "Goodnight, you sonuvabitch, it's good to have you back. It's been ages since there was a party at Foxsong. You know what you need—a ball. You need to host a ball now that you're home. Don't tell my mama, but there ain't no one around here with balls like the Robicheauxes."

After the words left his mouth, Micah grew quiet and looked Goodnight straight in the eyes. Then he burst into laughter. "No one around has balls like the Robicheauxes!"

Out of mostly amusement at how drunk Micah was already, Goodnight chuckled politely, noticing how those close to them were staring; he didn't mind attention so long as it was for the right reason, but Micah rarely brought about the right kind of attention. "That's a good one, Micah." The negro boy returned with the whiskey, and Goodnight took it quickly and pocketed a bottle, ducking away before Micah could say anything else.

"About time you came back. I was beginning to think you'd run off back to Charleston with all of it." Then Goodnight held up two bottles, and Ames whistled. reaching for one. "Say, I'm going to have my barbecue with Mathilde, are you sure you don't need me to introduce you to anyone? Lots of girls came out while you were gone—or did you get sweet on one in Charleston?"

"You won't meet prissier girls than those in Charleston. I'll be fine, Ames." His friend didn't seem convinced. "Ames, this hasn't changed. You're still chasing skirts, and I'll get around to it when one strikes my fancy."

Dark eyes twinkling in a way Goodnight had long learned meant that Ames was up to no good, his friend shrugged. "Alright, Goody, whatever you say. But I insist that you eat with us nonetheless."

000

Under one of the oaks for which the plantation got its name, Goodnight and Ames, along with the two youngest Miller boys, took their barbecue with the Verret twins and Minerva, the twins' best friend Augusta Evercreech, and Opal Jarreau, and as usual, the Verret girls didn't stop chattering. Goodnight was content to sit back and let Ames and the twins have their fun, getting in a jest when one of them stopped for a rare breath and only feeling the slightest bit out of place after being away for so long.

"Goodnight, I believe you know Miss Hattie and Miss Mathilde, but this is their sister Miss Minerva, Miss Augusta Evercreech, and Miss Opal Jarreau," Ames had managed to say at first, before he was promptly blinded by the lovely creatures in skirts.

Since then, Goodnight, Opal, and Augusta had been overshadowed by their raucous companions. The two girls had taken up their own quiet conversation on the side, giving Goodnight a chance to get a better look at the group.

Out of all five, Minerva was by far the prettiest, with dainty little features and bright fair hair, but she was a Verret, and as much as Goodnight loved to talk, and as much as she was overshadowed by her sisters, she was making his head spin. Opal, the redhead, had donned her best blue muslin dress, and if she hadn't had such a blank look in her eyes, she could have been appealing. Up close, Augusta's own eyes, green, were slightly buggy but lively, and even if it was fake from talking to Opal—which Goodnight couldn't determine no matter how hard he tried—she kept the smallest little smile on her face, just enough to be noticed and make one want to smile too. 'Approachable' was the word Goodnight thought described her.

When she seemed to notice Goodnight was not taking part in any conversation, Augusta put a hand on Opal's dress. "Oh dear, Opal, we've been so rude. Mr. Robicheaux has just come home, and we haven't said a word to him. And you know we simply must, considering our other companions."

Goodnight couldn't help but laugh, even as Augusta's eyes widened almost sheepishly, neck reddening at her words getting ahead of her lips. "No worries, Miss Augusta, I was not offended by any part of your statement."

"Please excuse me," she said, ducking her head to hide a smile. "That was not kind at all."

"I believe it serves to shed some light on a predicament of mine. You see, I was just sitting here wondering how you, so fair and mild, could possibly be one of the Evercreech sisters." If he hadn't been a gentleman, the look on her face told Goodnight that she would likely be rolling her eyes at him. "How are you sisters, by the way? I haven't heard about them in a good while."

"If only we were so lucky," she teased, taking a deep breath, brow furrowing in concentration. She began slowly, perhaps to keep herself in check. "Anastasie is living in New Orleans, down on Pyrantia Street. She has three children now, all boys, thankfully more akin to Amos. Salome is as ornery as always, she's at Dorian Saucier's plantation in Reggio, one girl. And Oceane—well, to our relief, she's a good ways away in Baton Rouge. No children. Again, thankfully, for the children's sakes."

"Don't remember much about Anastasie, she was married before I started coming around. Of course, no one can forget Oceane, but I remember Salome, though by then she was engaged, I believe. Truth be told, Salome scared me a little."

Augusta laughed sharply before she could stop herself and then pressed a hand to her mouth, casting her eyes to Opal as the other girl rose and went to meet Mrs. Magee, who was making her way towards them. "Oh, Salome is as harmless as she is heartless."

"Well, it's no matter. I would not like to end up on her bad side. She was a good bit older, and between that and that scowl, I could never find the courage to ask her to dance."

"Pardon me," Opal said, returning and breaking into everyone's conversations, "but Mrs. Magee is curious as to whether the ladies are ready for a nap."

"We'll be right along, Opal," said Augusta before turning back to Goodnight. "It has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope I'm not as frightening as Salome."

Goodnight gave her a lopsided grin in return. "Not nearly. I'd have to say you remind me more of Oceane."

Her face paling, Augusta's expression immediately changed from one of happiness into one of horror and disgust, but when Goodnight laughed, she grinned too, color returning. She huffed, hands on her hips with a good-natured smirk. "I hope I never hear that again."

000

And with that, Augusta and the Verret girls followed Opal into the house, which was already filling with ladies for the mid-afternoon nap. As the day turned to evening, the gentlemen downstairs could hear the ladies upstairs getting ready to make their appearance. They listened in amusement at the twins scolding Minerva for taking their ribbons, at the tragedy of Miss Evangeline DuBois' ripped skirt, and about how they needed to get Olive Jarreau's hair in shape if she was ever going to have any luck. And then the men went back to smoking cigars and drinking their brandy. Eventually they retired to change into their formal wear, taking no time at all in comparison, and waited at the foot of the stairs for the ladies.

Next to Goodnight, Ames bounced from foot to foot, chattering away happily; in all their years together, Goodnight had become adept at not paying attention to Ames' rabbit trails, just as Ames had done with him, but he perked up when Ames mentioned Mathilde. "I hope she wears that purple dress. I declare, she could wear that purple dress every day, and she'd still be stunning. She'll probably come down with Miss Augusta, don't you think, Goody?"

"I suppose," Goodnight agreed, though he had no clue who the twins would come down with. But he would not be opposed to it being Augusta; she'd been right captivating at supper, hinting at an unknown vivacity under her soft demeanor, and he hadn't been able to escape those big lovely eyes once she'd turned her attention to him.

Ames elbowed him. "You better ask her for a dance—ask her when she gets down. It won't look strange if she comes down with Mathilde. You'll look like you're with me, and I'll go up to Mathilde, and you'll have to talk to Miss Augusta so that you don't look rude. No one will think anything of it, if that's what you were worried about."

"Why do I want to ask Miss Augusta for a dance?" Goodnight asked, almost irritated with Ames. Over and over hundreds of times, he'd insisted that if a girl came along and he liked her well enough, then he'd make plans from there; but since he'd been home, Ames had become even more transfixed on finding Goodnight a girl, and it was likely he'd suggested every girl he knew between Foxsong and Baton Rouge.

"You two hit it off just fine at supper, and don't look so surprised that I was watching. Why wouldn't you want to ask her for a dance?" Goodnight started to reply that she was an Evercreech girl, but Ames cut him off. "Don't give me that. You know she's ten times friendlier than Salome and nothing close to Oceane. Now that you're home, you're going to have to do some dancing."

"I'm not arguing to dancing, Ames—"

"Goodnight," Ames said, serious for once, eyes solemn and out of place in his childish face. He put his hand on Goodnight's shoulder. "It's just a dance, and you two were friendly enough. Please?"

"I'll think about it," Goodnight said to pacify him, but his stomach somersaulted at the thought of asking Augusta to dance—not that he hadn't considered it all afternoon.

Obviously appeased for the time being, Ames began to prattle on again about this girl and that, always circling back to Mathilde and Augusta. Ames chased skirts and loved women in his own way, but Goodnight loved them in another; Ames loved women for what they could give him, but Goodnight loved them for what they were: God's greatest gift to man. He loved the way they moved, the way they spoke, and he loved how quietly resilient they were. Women were made to be adored and treasured, not pursued for fun as Ames thought, and it was this notion that made him so nervous.

But Goodnight stood happily at the foot of the stairs and watched as each lady made her descent, arms linked with a friend's, laughing and talking behind their fans. The difference between them at supper and now was astonishing, and he was amazed at how a pretty dress and the thought of dancing could make them so giddy.

They heard Mathilde and Hattie before they were seen. Sure enough, Ames had been right. Hattie and Minerva came first, followed by Mathilde, luckily in her purple dress, carefully watching Ames while she whispered to Augusta, who had something akin to self-conscious embarrassment on her face. Whatever Mathilde said made her look over the railing to where he was, and with a blush, she gave him a smile and nod, and turned gracefully back to Mathilde, who looked like she was receiving a scolding.

Before he realized what was happening, Ames, with a whistle, had drug him by the arm to where Mathilde was. "My, oh my, aren't you two stunning! What do you say, Goody?"

"Yes," Goodnight stammered once he'd recovered his voice, "positively radiant."

Mathilde paid him no mind, but his head swelled at her companion's blush. Miss Augusta was pretty, in her own way, with her tight curls now falling unpinned around her shoulders and down her back, and a soft green dress about the color of her eyes. As Goodnight noticed this, he tried to reach deep down to find his courage. He could do it. "Miss—"

"Augusta, come with me," Minerva said, tugging Augusta away without even a glance to Goodnight, though Augusta sent him an apologetic look over her shoulder.

As they made their getaway, followed by Mathilde and her expression of fury, Ames turned to Goodnight with a look on his face of utter astonishment, having obviously realized Goodnight had been in the process of going along with his plan but had been thwarted by a tiny little girl. Goodnight could only shake his head and say, "Goddamn."

"Goddamn," Ames nodded. The ball was winding to a close, with only one dance left, and it was now well into the morning. Try as they might, neither Goodnight nor Ames had been able to corner Augusta, and on more than one occasion, Goodnight had caught Mathilde looking as though she were about to throttle someone.

000

"Miss Augusta," Mr. Magee began just before the last song, "would you do us the honor of a story?"

"Me? Oh, you don't want a story from me," the girl in question replied, waving her hand as if to brush the request off. At the uproar of the crowd, her signature blush crept up her neck, and Goodnight, despite his frustration, couldn't help but grin when he noticed. "Well, if you insist."

"You're in for a treat," Ames said. Around him, Goodnight heard whispers about Miss Augusta telling a story float through the air, and everyone began to gather. Once she had taken a seat on the porch steps and settled her skirts around her, she gave them all a closed-mouth smile that was no longer bashful and peered into the faces of those closest to her, batting her eyes just enough to draw attention to them.

"Now. We all know a skeptic, and Tom was exactly that. If science couldn't prove it, he didn't believe it. Mind you, Tom was a big man, tall and proud, and he wore his opinions like he wore his fine pocket watch: where everyone could see. Well one fine evening while the moon was full and bright, Tom was down at the—the watering hole, if you will—shooting the breeze and enjoying drinks with some other local men, when the topic turned towards ghosts. One of the men, Louie, began to tell them about his old Uncle Alastair and the nearby cemetery. And Tom wasted no time in telling people what he thought.

"'Oh, there ain't no such thing as ghosts,' he said, loudly so that even the deafest of ears could hear. 'Science has never proven that there are, so they must not exist.'"

Goodnight stood in place, enraptured by the words pouring from her lips, the way her voice was somehow equal parts meek and confident, and how her lovely face could change expressions on a dime. And, well...he'd never been able to turn down a good story.

"Well, Louie was a bit offended, and he snapped right back at Tom, 'There are ghosts, and I can prove it. My Uncle Alastair was here one night on the full moon, just like tonight, mind you, when he realized he'd been out much longer than Aunt Mamie had said. So he tried to hurry back, and he took a shortcut through the old graveyard. As he was passing through, he felt something on his ankle, something that felt like a hand wrapped around, and he went crashing down. It was as if something was trying to use him to pull itself out of the ground. He gave whatever had him a few swift kicks, and when he finally he shook off what had him, he made a beeline for home.'

"Now, everybody else there at the pub, they all agreed that Uncle Alastair had been grabbed by something supernatural. But Tom was a stubborn man by nature, and he just shook his head. 'The only spirits that were in that cemetery were the ones that Alastair brought with him. He probably just tripped himself over a root or a marker.'"

At this the crowd buzzed with hushed laughter, each of them entranced by whatever she was saying, by even the slightest flick of her wrist as she gestured animatedly.

"By then Louie was really offended, as any man in his right mind would be after being called a liar. He pulled out his hunting knife, and he slammed that blade into the counter in front of Tom. 'Alrighty, Tom, why not put your money where your mouth is? If you're so brave, then you take my knife, you go to that cemetery tonight, and you put it in the ground in the very center of the place. We'll know if you were there or not.'

"Tom thought he had nothing to fear. Science had never proven there were ghosts, and he wasn't going to let Louie get to him, so he took the knife, and he set right out towards the cemetery with no fear in him."

At this point, Augusta pulled an uncertain face and spoke a little slower, voice wavering slightly. "But he got to the gate, and even though there was a full moon, it was still rather dark, and even Tom had to admit that it was a little unsettling. But he was not going to be called a coward, and so he pushed through the gate and right to the middle of that cemetery, and he bent down to put the knife in the ground.

"And then, everything got quiet. The frogs and the crickets stopped singing. The moon disappeared behind the cover of clouds, and a wave of fog rolled over the land."

A hush had fallen on both Tom's world and the ball, and the crowd collectively inched a little closer to hear the speaker, who had paused with her hand clutching an invisible knife.

"By then, Tom was good and spooked. He pulled out the knife, raised it in the air, and plunged it down into the earth. Except...well, he must have hit a root, or a rock, or something because—you see—that knife did not go into the ground. Well, Tom wanted nothing more to get out of there. He tried once—twice—thrice— _four_ times before he managed to sink the knife deep into the dirt. He gave a cry of triumph and tried to jump up but—he couldn't move! Something had hold on the front of his coat!"

Goodnight felt the pounding in his chest, felt his heart speed up and his breath catch; he was ensnared by the lilt of her drawling voice, but he had no urge to free himself, even if his heart did give out.

"Tom cried out again, this time in fear. He grabbed onto his coat and tried to wrench off whatever had him, but try as he might, he was stuck, and stuck tight. His heart hammered in his chest. He just knew that he was going to be pulled into the ground and that it was time to meet his maker or the Devil. With one final tug, he fainted.

"Now, wanting to see if he actually followed through with it, the men from the bar had followed Tom and heard him a-tugging and a-yelling. When they stopped hearing Tom, they got a little worried and went to see what had happened. There was old Tom, out cold on the ground. They rushed to pick him up, but they too found that Tom was stuck. And then they began to laugh."

Giving them a sheepish grin, Augusta pulled her head into her shoulders. "You see, in his hurry, Tom had gotten a little reckless and accidentally put the knife through the lapel of his coat. The men pulled the knife out, and they carried Tom back to the bar, and to this day, Tom swears up and down on the existence of ghosts. The men at the bar never tell him any differently."

And then Augusta sat back and folded her hands on her lap, not seeming the least bit phased at the uproar of the partygoers. Goodnight let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding and heard Ames chuckle. When he glanced over to him, Ames was watching him with a smirk. "If you hurry, you can probably catch her. There's one last dance."

For once, Goodnight didn't mind that Ames was doing everything in his power to get him to dance. Any girl that could weave a yarn like that was one he wanted to know. With a hard swallow, Goodnight took a deep breath, straightened his cravat, and fixed his coat before making his way to the porch just as the music started. He quickened his pace to cut off Micah, who was headed in the same direction.

"Excuse me," he heard Augusta say to the ladies who were surrounding her when he caught her eye. Goddamn, his mouth was dry.

"Miss Augusta, I may have never danced with your sisters, but it would be an honor if I could do so with you." Inwardly Goodnight congratulated himself at not stammering, and even if she declined, he would be mostly happy that he'd just gotten his sentence out.

But he watched as her lips curved upwards, tentatively at first, as if trying to suppress it, and then all at once she was beaming, and he couldn't get enough. It could have been how the moonlight fell on her face, or the way her eyes crinkled, or maybe the way she said his name, but he realized that there was something about her that was right pretty. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Robicheaux."


	2. Chapter 2

**As before, the date with Billy is April 1877, and the date in New Orleans is June/July 1855**

 **Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish, I will never own Magnificent Seven.**

For the first time in a long while, Goodnight readied himself bright and early Sunday morning to go to church. It had been hard to go while he'd been in Charleston, since there were not nearly as many Catholics in South Carolina as Louisiana, but today he was going to the church he'd grown up in with his family, the one his father had seen built, and he was glad he was home.

As the Robicheaux sibling carriage pulled up to the church, Goodnight looked out the window and felt a new rush of contentment at the familiar faces all milling about in front of the building before Mass.

"Excited, Goody?" Across the seat from him, his sister Valentine grinned wickedly. "I saw you last Thursday."

Goodnight had hoped she would grow out of her meanness, but on the contrary, Valentine had merely learned to skillfully conceal that part of her. At fifteen, she was already beautiful, with their mother's fair hair and sharp blue eyes; she'd have more beaux than she could keep track of once she came out, even with her mean spirit.

"Funny how people see each other when they share a house and carriage," Goodnight said as his ears heated. This was the conversation he'd been waiting on but hoping wouldn't happen. Friday when he'd come down for breakfast after the ball, Valentine had sat across the table and smiled wolfishly at him, a cat knowing she had caught a mouse; she loved secrets and gossip, and he'd known just what she had on her mind. But he'd buttered his toast, didn't give her a chance to speak, and steered clear since then.

"I saw you at the barbecue and the ball."

"I don't remember you turning sixteen," Goodnight said to her offhandedly.

"I wasn't at the ball, but Mama didn't take me home either. Made me stay upstairs all night." Rolling her eyes, Valentine crossed her arms, forever peeved that she wasn't allowed to showcase herself. "I just looked out the window, and I saw you cut off Micah Magee to dance. She's right there, if you want to speak."

"Don't point, Val, that's not proper."

"It's just you in here, I can be as improper as I please," Valentine snapped with a toss of her lovely head. "Come along now, let us mingle."

Before he could answer, Valentine flung open the carriage door, leaving Goodnight with no other option but to step out and help her down. Passing through the doorway and transforming herself into a proper lady of society, she linked her arm into his and led him, more or less, through the crowd, stopping to flash her dazzling smile and speak to whoever caught her eye.

While his sister was paused by the DuBois clan to discuss their upcoming party, Goodnight took the moment to scan the crowd. He loved seeing everyone in their best, loved the sober but happy air that always followed Sundays, and he always had a surge of pride when he saw the church his father built.

"Oh, Goody, you must meet this lady!" Valentine suddenly shrieked, much louder than proper, and a flash of annoyance struck Goodnight as people turned to stare; he liked attention, but only for the right reasons. "Brother, this is Miss Augusta Evercreech. Augusta, have you met my brother, Goodnight?"

To Goodnight's surprise, two ladies turned when Valentine addressed Augusta; the one being spoken to smiled easily, but the one to her left gave only a cold stare with one eyebrow cocked, looking like she would spit at them at any moment. Whereas Augusta had been right pretty at the ball, she now paled in comparison. Salome Evercreech Saucier could have been every man's dream, with her heavily-lidded grey eyes set against mahogany hair and full lips; but her lips were usually turned down in a scowl, and her eyes always told you that if you lived or died, she could not care less.

Wide-eyed, Augusta's head swiveled back and forth between the Robicheaux siblings and Salome. "I had the pleasure at the Magees', Valentine. Mr. Robicheaux, Valentine, have you met my sister Salome?"

"I don't believe I have properly. It is an honor, Mrs. Saucier," Goodnight said, sweeping his hat off his head as he lowered into a bow. To no avail.

Salome, raising the one eyebrow higher than Goodnight could have ever thought possible, was evidently not impressed. She gave Goodnight a once-over down her nose, half snarling, then cut her eyes to Augusta. "Robicheaux, you say?" She had a slow, husky voice, and dripped each word with disdain. Augusta couldn't even answer before Salome had cut her eyes to Goodnight once more and, seemingly deciding they were not worth her space, turned and stalked away, hips swaying.

While Valentine stood with her mouth open, Augusta, eyes twinkling, pressed her lips tightly together. Finally she said, "Mr. Robicheaux, it is not honorable to charm a married woman like that."

Snapping out of his surprise, Goodnight couldn't help but laugh. It seemed time and marriage had not worn Salome to sweetness. "I'm remembering now exactly why I couldn't ask her to dance."

"Why, I never," Valentine huffed as Augusta pressed a hand to her mouth and Goodnight's shoulders rocked with laughter.

In that moment, Goodnight wished his sister was not there, nor the crowd of churchgoers. Augusta looked like she was stretching at the seams to contain a slight of the tongue, and Goodnight wanted to know what it was, wanted to pry the secret from her red lips. He must have been staring because he noticed the blush creep at her neck, and she cast her gaze down. But he wanted her to keep looking at him.

"It's been lovely to see you both. Good day to you," Augusta said, nodding at the Robicheaux siblings as she headed towards the church with her family. Salome, now on her husband's arm, did not look back.

When they took their seats a few rows ahead of the Evercreeches, out of the side of her mouth so their parents didn't hear, Valentine hissed, "You haven't offended her, have you?"

"I'm afraid I never had the pleasure of making her acquaintance," Goodnight whispered back, hardly realizing that he was answering. He knew the Evercreeches were behind them, and he didn't know whether or not he was imagining the eyes on his back.

* * *

"Once upon a time, Billy, everyone had said Anastasie Evercreech would struggle to find a husband, but as far as I know—and I'll never know any differently—she had no issues whatsoever. And then it was Salome's turn, and everyone thought that, sure, she was absolutely breathtaking, but she was too mean to ever get married. But along came Dorian Saucier, and she must have been somewhat sweet because it wasn't long before he'd proposed.

"Billy," Goodnight states, "I don't know if Salome tricked Dorian or all of New Orleans."

Billy flicks the ashes from his cigarette with a slight of his middle finger, his lips twitching faintly.

"She was a right snake, that one, but I'll tell you what. There weren't too many people whose… _respect_ I wanted to have, but Salome was one of them." He scoffs. "You never knew what she would do. She'd scowl at you until you expected it, and then she'd be grinning away. You'd think she was going to call you a sonovabitch—her second favorite word, behind the root of that—but then she'd just laugh and swat at you. On my honeymoon, I bought her this beautiful bonnet, and when I gave it to her, she said in the flattest voice possible, 'What a color.' Say that, Billy."

"What a color," Billy deadpans, and he can't stop a smile from spreading across his face when Goodnight laughs.

"Just like that, she said it just like that. Oh, the disappointment of that moment." Goodnight offers Billy his bottle of whiskey and takes a long, sobering swig when Billy returns it. "I think I eventually earned her respect, but I'll never know that either."

* * *

"Alright, Aggie, we have you all to ourselves now."

When Hattie said that, Augusta knew she was in trouble. Her parents milled about inside the Verrets' parlor, sleepy from lunch and the heat, and she hadn't thought much of it when the twins had dragged her outside since they were often scolded by Mrs. Verret for being too rambunctious. As sweet and friendly as they were, Hattie and Mathilde were not quite as proper and docile as their mother hoped.

"What is it," she asked nervously. Had she known the twins had a ploy up their sleeves, she would have put up a fight, but it seemed too late to make an escape inside.

"Well, we just wanted to know what you thought of the Magees' ball the other day. We never had a chance to catch up, you see," Mathilde began, trying in vain to look as innocent as possible, and Augusta felt her neck heating, knowing where the conversation was headed. "Who all did you dance with, again?"

"Let's see here...there five dances. First was Micah Magee—"

"Oh, Minnie danced with him, and now she's determined she's going to catch him," Hattie scoffed with a snarl, rolling her eyes, obviously unimpressed, and Augusta thought she heard her mutter, "Stupid."

"And there was...next was Josiah Miller—don't look at me like that, Hattie, I couldn't very well say no—and then I danced with Ames while you were with Micah, Mattie. Fourth was Ansel Delacroix, and then I finished the night with Goodnight Robicheaux."

"And what did you think, which ones seemed promising?" Mathilde pressed closer, like a child eager for a treat, blue eyes twinkling.

"Don't you dare even think for a moment that I could have any interest in Josiah, and I'd never even consider Ames, Mattie. If Minnie wants Micah, then he wasn't so interesting that I'll miss him, and besides, I think he was drunk before we went inside for a nap. I suppose that only leaves Ansel and Goodnight."

"Would you really want to live out at Flipeau?" Hattie asked, always the more particular of the two. "Tobacco? And I hear the fields stink so much from the slave quarters. Imagine you trying to host a party and the fields stinking."

"You'd be the talk of the town, alright," Mathilde agreed.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "Hattie, Mattie, you're telling me that my only option from the other night is Goodnight."

Goodnight Robicheaux, making his returning debut to New Orleans, now a good deal taller and more filled out, but still with those sharp blue eyes. She hadn't seen him since a year or so before she came out, when he had been quite smaller and hadn't given her anything other than a passing glance. But then again, with her sisters, no one had given her more than a passing glance, not when she was so quiet and her sisters were so loud and obnoxious, in her opinion, save for Salome who rarely spoke unless it was to call Oceane a bitch; her sisters who would not have needed to have opened their mouths to turn heads. She had never paid any mind to him either, but at the Magees', he'd been so charming and had all the girls chattering, now that the Robicheaux heir was back home. The handsome devil, he knew how to make a return, that was for sure.

"Now, that's not what we're saying," Mathilde began, but Hattie, taking up her sister's eager expression, said, "Wouldn't you love to live at Foxsong? Oh, Aggie, wouldn't it be so nice to be a _Robicheaux_? You could have whatever you wanted and live in that beautiful house."

"You don't get married based on what house you want to live in, Hattie," Augusta scolded, though she couldn't keep from grinning, knowing that was exactly how Hattie would choose a husband. She shrugged. "Besides, I'm afraid there's no hope with him. Valentine came to introduce us today, and Salome probably scared him off."

"Sal—how could she," Hattie shrieked suddenly, pounding her fists on her lap, face aghast because she knew that Salome had no qualms about letting people know what she was thinking. "That hag, how could she have done that!"

"Shhh," Augusta hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the house and covering Hattie's mouth with her hand. "Don't act like Oceane, or you'll have everyone out here."

Hattie shoved Augusta's hand away, frowning impressively, a foreign gesture on her lips. "Ames told Mattie...he told Mattie you and Goodnight...Aggie, I really hate your sisters."

Before Augusta could add anything to that thought, good or bad, Mathilde had joined in. "Hattie is right, Aggie. Ames…How could Salome have scared him off?"

"She was just Salome. What is this about Ames?" But the twins simply shook their heads in unison.

There was a little part of Augusta who was resentful of Salome too. Her sister had a knack for scaring off men almost as good as she had a knack for drawing them to her, but Augusta didn't see why Salome had to scare off men who weren't even interested in _her_ —at least, not all of them. If she wanted to scare off Josiah Miller, that was one thing, but Goodnight…

He was handsome, and worldly in a way other gentleman weren't. Perhaps it had been the way he spoke, with his slow, deep voice, hanging onto words as if he put a good deal of thought into what he was saying, or the way he had walked with long strides and just a hint at a bounce in his step. She had liked the way he grinned, all lopsided until his lips really pulled back and made his eyes crinkle, and how he had leaned towards her ever so slightly when they spoke.

Then Augusta caught the twins smiling wolfishly, exchanging glances between themselves, and she realized she had been grinning too.

* * *

At the very south end of Foxsong, the creek that flowed through the parish separated the Robicheaux family from the Evercreeches. Goodnight had spent a great deal of his boyhood free time down by the creek. He'd gone there to practice his shooting, which his mother knew nothing about; to fish, which is what he always told his mother he was doing; and to read, which is what his mother most likely suspected he was doing.

He loved reclining beneath the willow with his hat covering his face and doing nothing but listening. Usually he only heard the babbling of the creek and a few frogs and birds, but if he listened closely, he could sometimes hear the work songs floating down from the fields, and if he was very still and came late enough in the evening, he'd been lucky enough to spot a handful of foxes for which the plantation was named.

Today, with a few hours before dinner, he had decided to take a walk down to the creek, fishing pole in hand and a book in his coat pocket. As he passed by the southern field, he saw his father sitting atop his horse next to the overseer, the two men surveying the work; his father pointed to the eastern field and made a sweeping motion with his hand, and Goodnight couldn't help but to smile. Maxence Robicheaux, family patriarch and parish paragon, the man with the softest heart and the strongest back; Goodnight didn't think he would ever know a better man than his father.

He had just started to whistle when the creek and his willow came into sight, but he almost stopped in his tracks. His willow was taken.

When she heard his whistling, Augusta raised her head from her book and regarded him as if she was deciding whether or not to be angry by the interruption. She settled on a warm, closed-lip grin. "Good day, Mr. Robicheaux. I hope I haven't taken your spot, but recently I've found it to be a lovely place. The creek is narrow there, and I can just hop, hop, hop right over on those rocks."

"Good day, Miss Augusta." What a great, terrible situation he found himself in, to have a lovely, captivating lady under his tree, looking right at home with her book and blanket. Goodnight wondered if the heavens or the Devil were smiling on him, and somehow, he didn't care a single bit that she was in his spot. He nodded to her. "My apologies for interrupting you. I'll be going, if you'd like."

Augusta shook her head, and the sun caught just so on her deep black ringlets, which beckoned his fingers as they danced. "As far as I know, fishing isn't a noisy pastime, and I fear I am on your property, so I believe it should be me who leaves."

"As far as I know, you sitting on that blanket and reading isn't causing much damage. If it suits you, I'll stay here and let you be."

"That suits me fine." She flashed her teeth, and Goodnight nodded to her again, turning away to fix his line so that she couldn't see his red ears. When he had his hook adequately baited, he tossed it into the pond and glanced to see what she was reading. _Wuthering Heights._

"'I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.'" Goodnight quoted under his breath, remembering one of the lines that had stuck out most to him.

"Have you read this?" Glancing over his shoulder, Goodnight found Augusta gazing at him with wide eyes, mouth drawn in such a way that was both hopeful and surprised. "That line, Brontë wrote it. Have you read this?"

"Of course," Goodnight answered, and when her face lit up, he knew that if he hadn't have already read it, he would have instantly told her to hand the book over and he would get right on it, fishing be damned.

"I'm surprised. I feel as though most think this is…well, a girlish book."

"Miss Augusta, to my knowledge, literature has no gender and is intended to be read by anyone who wishes to read it."

"Oh, how exciting!" she gushed, leaning forward slightly, and Goodnight wished he was sitting on that green blanket next to her. "I should have known you liked to read by the way you spoke, but I feared most men would have no use for books and only cared about the crop. Not that I would know, my poor papa has been so outnumbered, so I couldn't base my judgement completely off him because it wouldn't be fair, but none of my sisters had any taste in literature."

"Yes, I'm afraid Val has more important things to occupy her time too. Like which dress she'll wear to the next ball. She is very accomplished at the piano though." His own book was growing heavy in his pocket, and he longed to pull it out and see her reaction. "I take it you read often?"

"Any chance I get. It doesn't matter if it's a science journal or a novel, or even the newspaper, though Papa doesn't approve of that. He says I have enough silly ideas without me trying to be versed in current affairs and it isn't my place to say any of them, but it's not as if there's anyone to listen to them, so I don't see how it matters. I agree—"

Perhaps she noticed his rapt, amused expression, but suddenly Augusta closed her mouth. Where she'd been bubbly and excited, she now blushed, ducking her head and looking almost ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get going like that, but when thoughts get in your head, you just have to get them out. My parents are always chiding me for it."

Goodnight wanted to reach out to her and tip her chin up so that she met his eye and tell her he was always getting thoughts in his head that he just had to get out. He wanted to watch her solemn expression melt away until she was smiling and her eyes were not doleful but lively again. Softly, just loud enough that she could hear him, he said, "I didn't mind one bit, Miss Augusta. It would be a privilege to know what you agree with."

But Augusta merely shook her head at him and gave him a gratefully sheepish look. She stood and picked up her blanket. "It's no matter. I really should be going, Mr. Robicheaux, I may be late for dinner. Thank you for letting me stay, however brief it was. I apologize for distracting you."

He was sorry she was leaving and that she wouldn't entrust him with whatever it was she agreed with. As she was walking away, Goodnight remembered the upcoming party at the DuBois residence and called, "Miss Augusta!"

Goodnight could tell by the way she turned around, pausing before taking slow steps that she really did not want to face him. "Yes, Mr. Robicheaux?"

"I reckon you'll be at the DuBois' on the Fourth?"

"I don't miss a party if I can help it." He hated how tired she sounded and wanted the lilt to come back to her voice.

"Might I have the honor of a dance?"

And then, the corners of her mouth tugged up before she could stop them, and somehow, he knew she was trying not to smile, which only served to invigorate him. "Of course, Mr. Robicheaux."

Goodnight's stomach wouldn't stop somersaulting. "And Miss Augusta! The pleasure was mine today."

 _You sly devil,_ her eyes said, but she turned for the last time with a toss of her head that he took to mean she didn't mind his slyness one bit.

* * *

A strand of grass tucked into his mouth, Ames stretched out on the bank of his family's pond. The sun blared down from the sky, but beneath the bald cypress, they were protected from its harshness. Thinking Ames had fallen asleep, Goodnight reached into the pack he had beside him and pulled out a book he'd picked up after the train had stopped in New Orleans. _Hard Times_ by Charles Dickens, the one he'd planned to read the other day until he'd gotten distracted.

"Goody, you best put that book down, or so help me God…" Ames muttered through teeth clenched around his grass.

"Or what?"

Ames opened one squinted eye. With the sun hitting his hair just right, he seemed to radiate a golden shine, falsely cherubic with his brown cow eyes and plush cheeks, and Goodnight thought he would have looked right at home if he'd been swathed in white robes and basking on a cloud. A man who enjoyed his food and drink, he leaned towards the plump side, but it suited him. "Well I won't shoot you, that's for sure." He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Let's talk, Goody."

"You know me so well." Goodnight feigned bashfulness, throwing his hat over his heart, and Ames shook his head.

"Asshole. Heard you, uh, met Mrs. Saucier at church."

"You heard? There wasn't much to hear. I think, Ames, that you watched this event unfold from the safety of Miss Mathilde's side." Ames smirk was his response. "I believe her sister got a right kick out of it."

"Who, Miss Augusta?" Ames asked, and Goodnight could hear from the excitement in his voice that this was the topic he had wanted to talk about. "You seemed to have hit it off with her."

Goodnight tossed his book onto his pack with a sigh, knowing good and well that he wouldn't be doing any reading. "Alright. I'll bite. Yes, Ames, I would say that we've hit it off."

"Do you love her?"

After he recovered from his shock, Goodnight could only laugh. Ames could fall in and out of love with anything in a matter of minutes, save for women, which he always loved.

"I don't know her!" The look on Ames' face was full of disbelief. "I can't tell you I'm in love with her when I don't even know her. I can't tell you how she takes her tea, or if she sings when she's all alone. I don't know what color she thinks looks best on her, or what she even thinks of herself. But she's something new. She has that look like she's just heard the most the most wonderful secret, and when she smiles, I must smile back. And she has that—that mane of hair, and when she moves her head or a strand of it falls, I have to stop myself from touching it." If Goodnight hadn't been lost in his soliloquy, he would have noticed Ames look of utter pride. "And goddamn do I want to know what she's thinking. She keeps teasing me, eyes flashing like she has a secret, always stopping herself from saying it. I just want to ease her open and let her spill everything to her heart's content. How lucky would I be to be entrusted with that?"

Springing into the air, Ames suddenly hollered and slapped his knee with his hat. "I knew it, I just knew it! I knew that you would like her. When she came out after you left, she told this marvelous story about a toad and a boo-hag, and I said to myself, 'Ames Rubadeau, this is the girl. This is the girl that's going to change Goody's mind.'"

"How'd that story end?"

"Not so great for the boo-hag, but don't try to change the subject. You best get to courting her."

"I don't know her, Ames. How can I face Mr. Evercreech and tell him that I intend to marry his daughter when I don't even know her?"

"You'll get to know her after you're married."

"Yeah? And I reckon you'd be the one to learn the alligator's got teeth after you get bitten."

"Well the DuBoises are throwing a party on the Fourth. You leave it to Mathilde and me, and you can have every moment of the party with her."

"I can do my own bidding, thank you kindly. And besides, I can't monopolize her, or everyone will talk. And not about me." With an inward sigh of relief, Goodnight congratulated himself that he hadn't told Ames he already had a dance saved, nor had he mentioned that he knew Augusta liked to read under his willow tree; that had not been a proper meeting, however short, and if word got out, they'd both be in trouble. He turned to his friend suddenly. "You know what I don't understand? How did I forget there was one after Oceane?"

Releasing a sharp bark of laughter, Ames laid back down. "There's what, eight years between them? Ten? She wasn't out yet, and Oceane never gave her a chance to be noticed at a gathering. And we were all worn out after Oceane was married and wanted to forget all the Evercreech girls. But Goody, I'm so glad you're back, and don't you worry, I'll put Mathilde in her ear."

Goodnight grunted. "I can do my own bidding. Now are we going to do any fishing, or are you just going to lie there all day?"

"Put that goddamn book away," Ames grumbled as he reached for his pole.

* * *

"I've got it right here," Mathilde Verret said breathlessly, waving a little card in the air with one hand and pressing the other to her chest. Upon Ames's request, she had gone bustling through the crowd and now returned with the object of his desire. "She excused herself, but I got her programme before she got away."

The card passed from Mathilde to Ames and then finally to Goodnight, who hurried to get it open with uncooperative fingers. Not wanting to be awoken from a nap, Valentine had taken her sweet time getting ready, and only the Sauciers were later than the Robicheauxes, though Goodnight, from only his brief meeting, doubted Salome cared whatsoever. But Goodnight cared, and he cared a great deal. If he was too late, he may not have a chance to put his name down.

Inside, each line for a gentleman's name had already been filled. All three blinked at the card, as if not able to fully comprehend what had happened. Goodnight felt his stomach drop. "Goddamn it, Valentine."

"It's full," Ames stated, and fury flashed across Mathilde's face. She jerked the card from Goodnight's hand in an unladylike but immensely Verret way, muttering about what a vazey little ratbag Augusta was.

Feeling very betrayed and extremely embarrassed, he was considering going home to keep from facing her when his mind registered the fact that both Ames and Mathilde were speaking and he hadn't heard a bit of it. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're already down," Ames said, and shoved the card into Goodnight's face.

When he managed to get the card at a distinguishable distance, he carefully read each name on it. There he was for the opening reel, and there he was again for the final waltz. But there was no way that he had written his name, and judging from Ames' surprise, his friend had not done so either, though his name was on there once. "I didn't do this."

As Mathilde plucked the card from Goodnight's hands once more, she smirked. "I know whose handwriting this is."

* * *

"May I speak honestly?"

"It would be a privilege if you did."

While Goodnight strolled lazily through the hedges with Augusta on his arm, the party came to a close, though rumor had it that the Mr. DuBois had procured fireworks. The final waltz had concluded, and he'd asked her to take a turn with him. As was only customary.

"I didn't put my name on your card."

In the dim light, he could just barely make out her face, serene and almost laughing. "Mr. Robicheaux, I promised you a dance, and a lady must keep her promises."

Her hand on his arm was small and warm, and he had a terrible, irrational fear that if he moved the wrong way he would crush it, but under no circumstances did he want her to remove it. He noticed her arm next to his, and the way her soft voice was slightly lower, how her head came just to his shoulder. From the side, he could see the way her nose curved up just slightly, just enough for someone to see if they were paying close attention.

"You put me down for two."

"I wanted to assure myself that you were as good dancer as I thought and that the first time wasn't a fluke." Her skirts swished with every step, and Goodnight could feel them brushing against the leg of his pants. For some reason, his every sense was hyperactive, but he his mind was still for once. "Tell me about Charleston, Mr. Robicheaux, that must have been exciting."

"It came to remind me of our New Orleans in its own certain way, old and proud though sleepy. The city is lovely and sits right on the bay. I used to go there in the mornings sometimes while it was still dark—you wouldn't believe how it looked as the sun painted the sky, and the palmetto trees along the bay looked just like shadows, black against the water and the sun."

Up and down the rows of hedges they wandered while Goodnight told her everything about Charleston. When he said something that caught her interest, she turned her face up to him, and when he said something funny, she tipped her head back to laugh, unrestrained and carefree. Soon he realized he was racking his memory for those moments just to hear the sound. When Mr. DuBois set off the fireworks, both Goodnight and Augusta startled before realizing that they had spent too much time away. He caught her eye, and somehow a silent understanding passed between them that they needed to return to the party no matter how much they wanted to linger in the garden.

"Thank you for the dance, Miss Augusta," Goodnight said when he delivered her back to the Verret twins. And then, in a burst of confidence, as Augusta dropped into a curtsy, Goodnight brought her hand to his lips.

"It was my pleasure," she answered with a ghost of a smile on her mouth, eyes locked with his, and if there hadn't been people around, Goodnight thought he would have put his lips somewhere higher than her hand.

* * *

Goodnight looks to Billy, waiting for the other man to pass some sort of judgement, but of what, he doesn't know. Until now, he's only listened silently, stoically, just like normal, except for the story about Salome and the bonnet, and Goodnight can't even read his face to see what he's thinking. It's a feeling he doesn't like, the uncertainty, not knowing what Billy is thinking. His name and Billy are all he has left in this world, and if he loses them, he can't imagine what he would do.

Faced carved from the substance of his "name," Billy blinks once and takes a long drag of his second cigarette, blowing out the smoke in perfect circle, and it's only then that Goodnight catches a hint of emotion—satisfaction. _Jumped-up little shit,_ Goodnight thinks fondly, reaching for the cigarette.


	3. Chapter 3

**The song Augusta sings is called "A la claire fontaine." And don't worry, Sam will be in blue, just like Goody says.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Magnificent Seven.**

"So how do you keep yourself entertained, Miss Augusta? Besides reading?" Goodnight gave her his best sideways smirk, allowing it to reach his eyes, as he elbowed Augusta.

The two were reclined one what must have been Augusta's favorite blanket, green checkered and wool, while the Indian summer breeze shook the branches of the willow around them. At his elbow, Augusta leaned away and fell onto her elbow. "You like to aggravate, don't you, Mr. Robicheaux?"

"I like to see what I can do to get a smile out of you," Goodnight answered, and when one spread across her face, he gently swiped his thumb over her bottom lip. "And there it is."

"Don't you have a book you'd like me to read? That usually keeps you still and quiet for a few minutes." Her eyes tried to scowl, but she couldn't get the smile off her face nor the blush from her neck to make it effective, and when she realized it was in vain, she shrugged. "Well, mostly I help my mama, but when I'm not doing that, I like to play our piano, and I go visit the twins when Sam is free to take me. I think you'd like my friend Sam. And oh—I love to paint, Mr. Robicheaux."

"I must insist that the name's Goodnight, darlin'. But do you now?" Goodnight pushed himself from his elbows to his hands. He'd expected her to say stitching or something of the sort but not painting; what a curious little creature she was.

Though it was nearing the end of October, the day was still warm, save for the occasional wind. Secretly, Goodnight, wanting to see what his coat would look like on her small frame, hoped it would cool off soon, if they were going to keep up their little rendezvous.

It hadn't been his complete intention to start seeing her like this—at least, he hadn't meant for it to become routine. The week after the DuBois party, he hadn't been able to rid her from his mind; she'd lingered there, the slight upturn of her nose, the way she would look up from under her lashes when she knew she had something to say that was out of place but she wanted his permission to say it anyway; he could hear her laughing, always how she laughed, and how she said in her captivating drawl, "Mr. Robicheaux." So he'd come down to the creek the following Monday, then Tuesday, and again Wednesday, when she'd finally been there. Like the time before, he'd stood a good ways away with his fishing line and offered conversation every so often.

Here they were, nearly four months later, with Goodnight lying next to her on her blanket, always shooting the breeze or listening as she read aloud—that was how he'd finished _Hard Times,_ as well as a handful of other books and one play—but he told himself it wasn't wrong since his intentions were strictly honorable.

"I'll paint your portrait if you'd like."

"You will?" He sat up completely now, body turned towards her, intrigued at this new facet of the youngest Evercreech.

Wednesdays had become his favorite day of the week, when he could lie next to Augusta and bask in her company. He didn't care that she was reading; he was content to be next her while she did something she enjoyed, content that he could be part of it. Slowly he was figuring her out, delving into her mind. He was understanding how she interacted with her sisters, how Oceane drove her mad and always stole the spotlight, and how Salome was cold but at least sensible, and how Anastasie was so much older that they didn't know each other too well. He was understanding how she had come to be so mild but, if he would let her, bubbly and teasing. When he was with her, his own mind was calm, and he couldn't get enough of her.

Augusta nodded. "Of course. Next week though, I don't have the things I need now, you see."

"I look forward to this." While Goodnight laid back down, Augusta brought her book back to her face, and without even thinking, he picked up her free hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"Mr. Robicheaux," she chided quietly in a sing-songy voice, but only halfway pulled her hand away, leaving the tips of her fingers in his.

"Name's Goodnight, darlin'," was his answer as he played gently with her fingers before she completely reclaimed her hand. He would get her to call him that one of these days.

* * *

Augusta had walked the path between her veranda and the creek enough times that she could make the trip with her nose in her book. She was as engrossed as Israel Potter by George Washington's speech and, eyes devouring the words on the page in front of her, did not notice Sam sitting on the veranda steps until she nearly stepped on him. "Oh stars, Sam, you nearly scared the daylights out of me! Why didn't you say anything?"

With a sly, unapologetic grin, Sam looked up at her from beneath his lashes, never once pausing in his peeling of the sweet potatoes. "Where've you been, Miss Augusta?"

The way he said it sounded like he knew exactly where she'd been. Augusta felt the blood drain from her face, but she tried to raise her chin, attempting one of Salome's fearsome expressions and knowing she was failing miserably. "Reading," she said, unable to think of a good enough lie.

"You must have started the book over then," Sam quipped, pointing out the fact that Augusta was nowhere near far enough along in her book to constitute her spending half the day reading.

Before Goodnight had come home, she'd trekked down to the creek maybe once a month when it was pleasant outside at best, and in comparison, she was now spending copious amounts of time there, so of course Sam would have noticed she was slipping away. He was too observant not to notice, and not for the first time, Augusta wished he was slightly more inattentive. "I was being good."

The corners of Sam's lips twitched, and his dark eyes said, _Oh, I bet you were._

He didn't push the subject, and knowing that conversation was over, with a huff that released all her frustration with him, Augusta plopped down on the step next to him, unladylike in her movements, and pulled from her makeshift pocket a pair of apples, which she offered to Sam.

"Have a snack with me." An opposition bloomed on Sam's lips, and when she saw it, she added, "Please?"

Just as she expected, Sam chuckled to himself and, putting down the sweet potato and knife he'd been using, took one of her apples with a shake of his head. "Miss Augusta, I think you're the only white woman in the world who'd ever say that."

Augusta smiled around her apple. "I get my way when I use that word."

The two sat in the veranda steps, eating their apples in a comfortable silence. That had been the foundation of what Augusta always described as friendship; in a time when Saltmore Hall had been filled with the shrill, bickering voices of her older sisters, Sam, her mammy's son, had emerged from the ruckus as a silent solace, and when her only other option for a playmate had been Oceane, Augusta had taken to him instantly. He'd been the one to find her when she'd been locked in the cellar, the one to say with only his eyes that Anastasie and Oceane were grating his nerves too, and the only other person in the house with whom she'd been able to share her love of books. Sam was her headache relief and her afternoon chat.

"I was being good, Sam."

"Miss Augusta," he replied, finishing his apple while she hadn't even made it through a third of hers, "you keep telling me that, and I'm going to think you're up to no good."

"Well I haven't been bad."

"I don't want to know any more, Miss Augusta."

* * *

There was a rock right under his posterior, and it had been hurting for a while now.

If he hadn't been so overwhelmed at first, Goodnight probably would have noticed that he'd sat on a rock to begin with, but Augusta had been a little more than excitable as she set up her things and when asked where she wanted him, she'd said, "Oh, I don't know, I suppose over by the water would be nice, just wherever you want." So he'd taken a seat in the first spot by the creek that he'd seen just so that she didn't get upset, more than a little unsure of what to make of her new rambunctiousness.

" _Je voudrais que la rose, fût encore au rosier_ _."_

But now he had a rock under his posterior, and he couldn't help but to move around. A little ways away under the willow sat Augusta, with an easel and a palette of paints in front of her.

" _Et que ma douce amie fût encore à m'aimer_ _._ Oh, stars, I'm painting myself!" People didn't smile in portraits, but Goodnight watched her, almost serenely childlike beneath the willow with her hair tidy and a stained smock over her dress, a stripe of orange now marring her cheek, and he couldn't keep one off his face. In June, he had told Ames that he didn't know if Augusta sang when she was alone, but today he had learned that she sang when she painted, and her favorite seemed to be a traditional French song that he couldn't help but add his voice to the refrain.

" _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai."_

Finally she cut her eyes to him and let them linger. More than once, it seemed, her brush, which she held poised in the air halfway to her canvas, had strayed from the canvas and onto her hands and wrists, which were streaked with a multitude of colors. "That's my favorite song."

"You sing it beautifully," he complemented, finally rising stiffly from his spot because he could not take that rock anymore. "May I see how you're doing?"

"No, sit back down, I'm not—" she stammered, thankfully waving the hand without the brush as Goodnight had already crossed to where she was in a few of his long steps.

For once in his life, he was speechless. Her enthusiasm had led him to believe that she was secretly an artist, but her painting was fairly lopsided, the lines uneven as if done by a shaky hand. The man on the canvas, dark-haired beneath his hat, wore clothing close to the same color as Goodnight, and he was seated on the embankment of a creek, but the similarities stopped there. Around the edge of the water, she'd painted bright orange, yellow, and red flowers, successfully giving the creek the appearance from a distance that fire enveloped it. Instead of the bright day with the sun high overhead, the sky was dark and spattered with little white dots, and a waxing crescent moon hung low in the top right corner.

"I never said I was good," she said, breaking the silence. Goodnight finally looked from the painting to Augusta, who gazed up at him expectantly with cautious doe eyes. Oh, what thin eggshells he was walking on.

"This is entirely unexpected," Goodnight said once he found his voice, and he hoped it was polite enough that she wouldn't take any offense.

"I haven't been here at night, but I imagine you have. And you looked so peaceful over there that I just had to make it nighttime—you know how lovely it is when the moon is out and bright, and you see, there's Orion because I wanted the stars to have depth and I'm sure that you know all the constellations, but Orion is the only one that I can ever find." She paused to gauge his reaction, and he never wanted to hear her speak with such disappointment again. "You don't like it."

"Au contraire, Miss Augusta." Taking a seat next to her, Goodnight finally gave her his lopsided grin, and his stomach leapt when her lips pulled back bashfully and she ducked her head. "This is, beyond even a shadow of a doubt, my favorite painting, and if you would allow me, I believe it would look perfect in the main hall at Foxsong."

And then, confirming his suspicions that she had been holding back the gesture all that time, Augusta rolled her eyes, so quickly that he would have missed it had he not been watching her face, and Goodnight couldn't curb the deep bark of laughter that escaped his lips. He did, though, check the urge to kiss her cheek and instead swept his thumb across the smattering of orange she had painted on it. "You embarrass me, Mr. Robicheaux."

But he could tell that, behind her blush, she was trying not to laugh too.

"I sat on that goddamn rock for a good two hours, Billy."

Even on his way back to the house, he hadn't been able to sit in the saddle properly, the feeling of the sharp rock still pressing into him, and he hadn't gone two hundred yards before he'd dismounted, which had been for the better, considering the painting was still wet. Walking had also given him time to figure out how he would get the painting into the house and out of sight until he could smuggle it to New Orleans for a frame the following month. How he'd explain the sudden portrait of himself by their creek, he hadn't the slightest idea, but he'd been smooth enough to figure he could make up some story.

At some point in the night, Billy has become invested in story time, though not enough for him to vocalize his questions. But Goodnight can read Billy as well as his favorite book, and the look in Billy's eyes says, _Was it worth it?_

Just like he doesn't ask personal questions, not vocally, Billy never does anything without good reason, doesn't do anything if he doesn't figure the returns will outnumber the costs, and Goodnight reckons that's how he's gotten so far. He could have been a good businessman had his circumstances been different.

 _Was it worth it?_

Goodnight thinks hard. There were lots of decisions he'd made in his life that had not been worth it, half of them involving Augusta, and a good half of the others involving Billy. If he was given the choice, Goodnight knows without having to pause the ones he'd change, the ones he wouldn't bat an eye to. Was sitting on that goddamn rock for so long worth it?

He thinks about the new insight he'd been made privy to that day. It hadn't take much to make her happy, but he thinks he'd unconsciously decided on the banks of the creek that he wanted to keep her happy. He remembers the day Augusta had come to Foxsong as the new lady of the house for the first time and had seen her painting hanging on the wall almost as soon as she'd walked through the door. He remembers watching her paint all those other canvases and the look she'd tried to contain when he'd hung them in the house, no matter how bad they were.

He can't remember anything but her smile, if that answers the question.

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Belles were expected to only show an expression of gaiety, but in the past few months, Goodnight had discovered Augusta had a face of glass. She cut her eyes sideways at him, snarling slightly, obviously unimpressed on how he had chosen for them to spend the day. She hoisted Goodnight's rifle up to her stomach and faced him. "I don't—"

Involuntarily, Goodnight's hands flew to his head, and he ducked away. "Miss Augusta, darlin', if you'd be so kind as to not point that thing at me, I'd be much obliged." He didn't know how he'd explain a bullet wound without giving away their secret—and he had no desire to be shot.

"Sorry," she said, and turned the gun so that it was no longer facing him. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, blinking rapidly a few times to still his racing heart.

"Now, just remember what I told you, and you'll be fine. Keep that foot behind you, and look straight down the barrel. There you go, you've got it. Remember it'll kick, but you need to let it surprise you. And when I say, pull that trigger _slowly_ , remember that part. Do it _slowly_. And...FIRE!" Augusta pulled the trigger, and the rifle immediately bucked into the air, throwing her shoulder back. She cried out, mostly in fright, and stumbled backwards before lowering the gun. The paper he had tacked to the tree was perfectly intact. "Goddamn, that was—" he caught her eye. "—that was your first try."

"That was loud, and I did not enjoy it." She held out the rifle. "No more."

"No, no, that was good," he said with a smile and nod, to which she pursed her lips and pushed the gun nearer. "One more try. I have an idea." Goodnight maneuvered behind her, pressing against her ever so slightly and partially crushing her crinolines, and she shifted uncomfortably. He tried not to think about how he probably would get shot for this.

"What are you doing?"

"Do you trust me?"

Augusta whipped her head around with a frown on her pretty lips, though it was one of uncertain wariness than unhappiness, and was met with a grin from Goodnight. "You are asking a loaded question."

"And you are holding a loaded gun, darlin'. Now turn back around." After one final scowl, she obeyed. "You did really well the first time with your form, it was just the kickback that got you. This time, get mad at the target, you've got to get really mad."

"I've got to hate it?"

Goodnight thought for a moment and shrugged. "Yeah, that's the idea. Hate what you're firing at. Alright, you're lined up just great. Hold that steady—thatta girl. Don't pay any mind to this." He pressed closer. "You just focus on shooting. You're not going anywhere, so don't be scared of the kick. Now I'm going to cover your ears, and when I do, you can shoot any time."

Taking careful consideration not to squeeze too hard, Goodnight pressed his palm to her ears. He watched her shoulders raise and lower as she took a deep, shaky breath, felt her back shift against his chest. Goddamn, they were close, and this was not proper in the least. He barely had to move his head at all to press his lips to her cheek...

The bang brought him to his senses. Augusta ricocheted into him with an "oof," but he stayed where he was and kept her upright. And when the smoke cleared, there was a single round hole in the top left corner of the paper. Beaming, Goodnight lowered his hands to her shoulders. "I'll make a sharpshooter of you yet."

"I imagined it was Oceane."

* * *

Billy has lost his stoic expression and is now wearing one of pure bewilderment. He blinks once. "You taught her to shoot? A rifle?"

Goodnight pulls at his beard sheepishly, noting he needs a shave, and tries to laugh. "I, uh...I can't explain that one. I'd intended to showcase my skills and shoot the nail on the paper—even back then I had quite the reputation around New Orleans for being a damn good shot—but I have no idea exactly what spirit possessed me to give her the rifle. And then she told me she'd thought about Oceane, and I said to myself, 'Goodnight, you have just become an accomplice in murder.'"

The joke is still on him.

Finally Billy chuckles to himself, shaking his head, lips curving up around his cigarette, and scoffs, "A rifle. Knives would have been better."

* * *

"Mr. Robicheaux?" Augusta asked one day, timidity making her stomach dance. "May I ask you something?"

Goodnight glanced up at her, and when he saw the uncertainty in her eyes, he sat up, face clouding with concern. "What's on your mind, darlin'?"

Augusta swallowed hard and bit the inside of her cheek in contemplation. She'd been scolded harshly by her father when she'd asked him what the situation was about, but she couldn't imagine Goodnight doing the same thing, not when he had yet to show a mean bone in his body, when he was nothing but kind and gentle. Not that it wouldn't be wrong of him to put her in her place, but she didn't want to face him if he did. "It's just...I heard my father talking about something the other day, and I didn't understand it, and he won't tell me. You don't have to answer, but I thought you would be honest. He said something about…ruffians in Kansas."

By the way he paled, coupled with her father's reaction, Augusta thought maybe she didn't want to know about the ruffians anymore. "I understand that you don't have to tell me if it's none of my business. But if it affects you and my father, it must affect me somehow too."

"It's...it's sort of tricky, Miss Augusta. It's getting a bit dicey in Congress. The government decided to let Kansas choose on whether it wanted to allow slavery or not, and people are very polarized. They've had some... _skirmishes_ break out."

He was choosing his words too carefully to actually mean skirmishes; she and Salome had skirmishes with Oceane and Anastasie, and that was nothing to be concerned about—not unless Salome really got set off. She thought about the look of uncontrolled fury Salome would get in those moments that told the world Satan was manifesting himself in her, and Augusta's stomach dropped. "Are people dying?"

"Yes," Goodnight answered after a pause, much quieter than usual. His sharp eyes kept roving over her face, searching for something she didn't know. He had the most wonderful eyes, so clear and pensive, always looking at her like she was bearing magnificent news.

"Why, though? Why should people die for this?" Augusta asked when she'd realized he was speaking and turned to the ground. The season finally chilling, the wind blew harshly, and she pulled her arms closer to her.

Goodnight sighed and moved closer, shrugging off his coat to drape it over her shoulders. "Why do you think your sisters are so loud?" When Augusta shook her head, Goodnight continued, "Because people like to have their voice heard, and they go to extreme measures sometimes to see that happens. See, if Kansas became a state, then it would throw off the balance in Washington, which would mean one side of the slavery argument would be represented more than the other side. One side wouldn't be as heard."

She couldn't stop herself from wringing her hands inside her muffler. People were dying, and she didn't quite understand how they couldn't find another way to solve the issue; obviously, they needed slavery, and that settled the matter in her opinion, but for whatever reason, people were dying. At that thought, she looked away from Goodnight. "That's scary."

"No, no, no," he soothed, reaching out to pat her muffler. He smiled, a true one, not his endearing, lopsided half-grin. "Fear not, Miss Augusta. Things will smooth out just fine. Hey," he said, swiping his thumb across her cheekbone and leaving a tingling trail in its wake. "You don't have any reason for worry."

When she looked back at him, catching his eye, Goodnight gave her a bigger grin until it almost became straight. Something in the way he said it felt so reassuring and made her believe him; or maybe it was the fact he'd said it at all, that he'd been respectful enough to tell her the truth, which made him seem so reliable; or even still, it could have been how much closer he got when the nerves set in, as if trying to keep whatever was unsettling her at bay. Whatever it was, it was comforting to know that she could trust him to be honest with her, and Augusta couldn't help the smile that spread across her face and tugged his coat tighter around her body. It would make do for now.


	4. Chapter 4

**There's a little shift in time here. It's still 1877 with Billy, but it's the 1856 Mardi Gras Season without him. Special thanks goes to warqueenfuriosa for her help with this.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Magnificent Seven. Otherwise everyone would be alive, and we'd already have a sequel...mostly of Billy and Goody just riding around doing cowboy things, with a side of Vasquez and Faraday.**

"The Degarmo-Labelle wedding is next month, right in the middle of the season. I don't know how they're going to manage that, poor planning on their part. Mattie liked to have had a fit when she found out it was during Mardi Gras, so I guess that takes care of three months that we'll never have ours. Say, Goody, speaking of weddings, are you ever going to—damn this thing!" Ames suddenly cursed, tossing his cravat into their air.

Goodnight looked up from where he'd wordlessly been putting on a pair of emerald cufflinks and sighed as he moved across his New Orleans bedroom to help his friend. "Ames, are you going to learn to dress yourself?"

"I can dress myself just fine, thank you. It's just that I can never get this thing tied." In four swift, deft movements, Goodnight had an elegant knot tied around Ames's neck.

"I reckon you can manage your shoelaces," he asked, and went back to his dressing table for his other cufflink. Tonight was the Castex ball, perhaps the biggest of the Mardi Gras season behind the Fat Tuesday party that Goodnight's family hosted.

"Oh, look at you, Goodnight Robicheaux, marksman extraordinaire and esteemed cravat tier. Just put on your jewels and hush," Ames snapped in retaliation, nose high in the air with false egotism but with his good-natured twinkle in his eye. "As I was saying. Are you ever going to start courting Augusta? I know you've been sweet on her since the Magees'."

"Are you ever going to actually propose to Mathilde instead of just talking about this supposed wedding? I know _you've_ been courting her since before I got home."

"You only know that because of Augusta. I'll get around to it one of these days, and she knows that. But what about Miss Augusta? All you do is make cow eyes at her, and everyone can see there is something going on that you aren't telling us. Tell me that you're going to start calling soon."

Back to Ames, Goodnight let out a sigh of relief, glad his friend couldn't see his face. His whole being had frozen when Ames had implied there was something secret between with Augusta, but Ames didn't seem to know that he was right. He struggled to compose himself, stammering, "I don't know, Ames. She's…she's lovely, but—"

"But what? You know what your problem is? You overthink things." Ames straightened his coat and, crossing to where Goodnight was putting on his shoes, laid a hand on his shoulder. "Goody. It's obvious that you adore her. Please, for my sake and hers, don't think about it and just find the nerve to do this."

Goodnight wanted to be angry at the implication that he was a coward, but he knew Ames was right. Countless times since arriving in New Orleans, he'd watched her ride by in her carriage and considered going to speak to the Evercreeches while she was out, but he'd yet to get up the nerve to do it. He kept asking himself, _What if?_ _What if she doesn't feel the same? What if I can't make her happy?_ If he didn't want to hurt Augusta, then instead of being worried about a courtship not panning out, he realized that he shouldn't have kept up their banter and rendezvous for so long; but more than anything, he was terrified that he would fall short of her expectations, or else leave her heartbroken. And he did adore her, that he couldn't deny.

With a self-satisfied smirk at his friend, Ames winked like he knew he had struck a nerve but didn't care because he'd accomplished his goal. "Let's go. The party is going to be in full swing if we don't hurry, and I know how you love watching Augusta make her entrance."

* * *

Goodnight had no doubt that Ames had Mathilde working for him. Even if Augusta was friends with the Verret twins, she seemed to end up with them an awful lot more than she did with anyone else, and Mathilde, never too far from Ames, who was in turn never too far from Goodnight, toted Augusta around as if to simply dangle her in Goodnight's face to tempt him to do something.

When the familiar red Evercreech carriage pulled to the front steps, Goodnight hopped in front of Sacha Castex to help down Augusta. He was surprised to find Hattie Verret step down first, then Mathilde, who was quickly snatched by Ames, and Salome before Augusta herself alighted slowly. Clutching her fan tightly in one hand, she offered him a shaky smile in thanks and held firm the hand he offered. She stumbled, missing the step, and Goodnight hurriedly made a grab to catch her. "Are you all right, Miss Augusta?"

Voice breathy, lower than usual, she covered her chest with her fan hand, blush creeping at her neck. "I…I'm fine except for making a spectacle of myself. I know it isn't quite proper, but my companions and chaperone seem to be long gone, and I'd be eternally grateful, Mr. Robicheaux, if you'd lend me your arm."

As Goodnight fulfilled her request, he noticed how tight of a grip she had instead of her usual light touch and—perhaps it was merely from the low light outside—the pallor of Augusta's face, and when it didn't change after they entered, Goodnight pressed the back of his hand to her neck, cool and damp, not caring that he shouldn't be touching her this way. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Let's sit down, shall we?"

Goodnight chalked up her complexion to being peckish, and once he had her seated next to Hattie under the suspicious eye of Salome, he set off for the hor d'oeuvres and returned with a plate. "Have a bite to eat."

"Oh, I don't think I could possibly…" Whatever she didn't think possible, she didn't say, but set down her fan, which had been feverishly flapping in front of her. Satisfied by her picking up a canapé, Goodnight reached for her dance card, asking how many she thought he could get away with, and put his name beside two, then turned to be entertained by Ames fussing with Mathilde. Even after dinner was served, they continued to bicker, though it was obvious they were doing so only for bickering's sake, over whether Minerva would manage a dance from Micah or who they thought would need the doctor called, as the Castexes had never made it through a ball without the doctor tending to someone.

It was when, from the corner of his eye, Goodnight saw Augusta pick up her fan again that he glanced at her plate. Since the DuBois party, he had learned that she was not a quick diner, but even now, she hadn't eaten anything that had been put in front of her. Every canapé that he'd brought her was still on her plate, though a bite had been taken out of one, and her dinner plate had not even been touched. "Darlin'," he ogled, "aren't you going to eat?"

"No, I'm not hungry at the moment." Back and forth she swatted her fan, back and forth at an alarming rate.

"I wish you would eat. You're driving me mad with that fan, Aggie," Hattie grumbled, trying in vain to smooth the hair that Augusta was blowing, and Salome finally turned her attention to her young charge and regarded her as she might regard an old, used handkerchief that had been discarded into her lap.

"I'm sorry, it's just so...it's so hot in here. I can't catch my breath."

Goodnight nabbed a glass of water from a passing waiter. "Have something to drink, Miss Augusta."

She complied, and after she'd downed half the glass, though slow enough to be proper, she closed her fan. "Thank you, Mr. Robicheaux."

He kept an eye on her for a few more moments, but she didn't reach for her fan again and appeared interested in the table conversation, so he thought nothing more of it. When the music started, earning a whoop from Ames, Goodnight helped Augusta to her feet and bowed in one smooth move before leading her to the floor.

Once they had taken their places on the floor and given their customary greetings, Goodnight swept Augusta close for the galop, her skirts billowing out in the first turn with the other ladies' in a torrent like a cavalcade of flags, and a gush of pride swept over him that he could carry her colors in the opening number. He stood a little taller and offered her a smile, which was returned in the form of a sort of grimace. After they had taken a full turn and a half about the floor and her complexion had continually grayed, Goodnight leaned his lips close to her ear, knowing he wasn't supposed to speak while dancing.

"Miss Augusta, please tell me if you aren't feeling well. You're starting to worry me."

"I don't—Mr. Robi—Mr. Robicheaux, I think I need to—sit down for a moment," Augusta panted, blinking rapidly. "I'm so sorry...but I really—quite woozy."

Immediately Goodnight's stomach dropped, and he halted to the side of the floor while Augusta swayed in place. This time he didn't quite question why she gripped his arm so hard as he led her off the floor and towards the wall, away from gossipy eyes. He had been aiming for their table, but Augusta latched onto the bar on the far wall halfway there. "Hold on a moment, Miss Augusta, I'll pull up a chair right here," he blurted fearfully. He let go of her for only a second, never taking his eyes away from her now ashen face.

"I—I can't b-breathe," she gasped, and then Goodnight couldn't move fast enough, feeling as though he were watching himself from outside his body, the air as thick as water. Augusta made as if to grab him, but instead she swayed once, face relaxing, and hit the wall behind her, bouncing off sharply, knees buckling. Goodnight shouted her name as her head met the side of the marble bar with a sharp crack, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap of fabric and a quickly growing pool of blood.

"Augusta," he cried again, forgetting in his panic to add the formality. His heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest, and he cursed as his handkerchief stuck in his pocket. Without even caring that it was his best one, Goodnight pressed it to her forehead and instantly felt sick when the sticky liquid soaked through to his gloved fingers. "Augusta, can you hear me?"

No response. Cursing loudly, Goodnight patted her cheek gently and wished with all his might that a vial of smelling salts would appear in his pocket. His heart hammered, and more blood leaked from Augusta's head. Goddamn it, he'd been trained to dance and talk suavely at balls, not what to do when a lady split open her head.

"Is she all right?" asked a low, cold voice behind him, and Goodnight whipped his head around to find Salome standing behind him, face devoid of any worry and as bored as ever. When she caught sight of her sister, she arched an eyebrow. "Oh. Heavens. This doesn't help my reputation as a terrible chaperone, now does it? Mammy must have gotten her too tight again. Well, let's get her out of here."

Though she didn't sound the least bit concerned, Salome waited for Goodnight to pick up Augusta before she scuttled along in front of them, pausing only to say something to a waiter as they passed. Even as she hurried, her hips swayed enticingly, skirts brushing side to side over the floor, and it was evident that Salome, with her head held haughtily high, knew exactly how beautiful she was. As she passed through the ballroom and hall, both gentlemen and ladies turned their gaze to her, but she didn't give any indication that she noticed, and it wasn't until they entered the parlor that she even acknowledged Goodnight again when she motioned to the divan.

"You need to leave, we're going to have to get her unlaced." With that, Salome had shooed him from the room just as the local doctor, Mrs. Castex, and the waiter to whom Salome had spoken bustled in, and the parlor door slid shut in his face.

A protest still on his lips, Goodnight looked up and down the hall, now emptying as the next song started, and took a seat on a stool across from the parlor door, swallowing his protest; though why he even thought he'd stay with her while they unlaced her corset was beyond him. He sat there for a few moments, catching sight of a few red droplets on the floor in front of him before he realized that he had been wringing his soiled handkerchief unconsciously. Glove damp, his hand too was now coated in a thick, sticky layer of poor Miss Augusta's blood.

"There he is," Mathilde cried, popping into the hall, while Ames shouted, "Goody!"

Mathilde's eyes widened at his gloves, and Ames said, "Jesus, Goody, Hattie told us she saw you carrying a bloodied Augusta. What happened?"

"Augusta, she…she fainted, conked her head on the bar, poor thing."

Mathilde gasped, covering her mouth with her hand as her eyes filled with tears. Ames whistled and clapped Goodnight on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Goody, she'll be ok."

"There was so much blood," Goodnight murmured and shut his eyes. The crack of her head hitting the bar echoed in his mind, and even with his eyes closed, he could see her lying in a pool of blood. "I—I let her go. She obviously couldn't stand, but I let her go. I was trying to get her a chair. I shouldn't have even been dancing with her, I should have known something was wrong, she'd been funny all night."

"Goodnight Robicheaux, you stop that," Mathilde scolded sharply, hands on her hips, and she bent down until she was level with him, taking his chin in her hand and making him look her in the eye. "Now she told us on the way here that her mammy had laced her corset too tight. She just fainted and hit her head, she'll be fine. Besides, what…well, it's a good thing the galop was first, or she would have gone the whole night being laced too lightly. And just think, Ames and I were both wrong about who the doctor would be called for!"

"Oh boy, Mattie, do we need to work on your bedside manner. Don't blame yourself, Goody," Ames said with another pat. "This isn't your fault. Remember that time when we were nine and you fell out of that tree? Your head bled and bled, and you were just fine, even though Mama said she'd never seen so much blood."

But the blood making his fingers stick together made him think differently. They hadn't heard the smack on her way down. They hadn't seen the way she had fallen, how she had crumpled to the floor, how she had lain in a pool of her own blood because he hadn't kept a hold on her and how heavy she had felt in his arms. Slipping from Mathilde's grip, Goodnight leaned over and pressed his palms into his eyes, hoping that it would rid him of the sight he'd witnessed.

The couple waited outside the parlor with him for another two songs before the door opened, and the doctor came out, wiping his hands on a rag. Immediately, Goodnight rose to his feet. "How is she?" he asked softly, impressed that his voice had even worked.

"Go see for yourself, if Mrs. Saucier is _agreeable_ ," he said, and went to rejoin the party. Mathilde pulled Goodnight to her by his vest and rubbed her handkerchief over his eyes where his soiled gloves had left a stain, and once she had him acceptable, she held out her hands for his gloves. It was only when Ames pushed him that Goodnight found the strength to move.

When he finally entered the room, Goodnight found Augusta lying on the divan, skin still wan, her head, wrapped in a stark white bandage, flopping to the side awkwardly, and it took all his restraint not to take her hands and sink to his knees at her side. Instead, he brushed back a lock of her hair from her eye and watched as her they fluttered halfway open. "How are you feeling, Miss Augusta," he asked as he pulled up a chair.

"Oh," she muddled out, "stars above, my head is positively throbbing, and I've made an absolute fool of myself, but if you just let me lie here, I'll be right as rain in a few moments."

"You haven't made a fool of yourself. I doubt even half the party realized what happened. But you did take quite the tumble. I was worried you'd done something more serious than just knocking yourself silly."

"I don't remember that, but I'll take your word for it. The pounding in my head makes me think you're telling the truth."

Again Goodnight found himself pushing back some of her hair, even though Salome stood at the door to keep an eye on them. Propriety be damned, he'd nearly been scared senseless by Augusta's tumble, and the poor girl looked so pitiful spread out on that divan with her pretty head covered in a bandage—and when he touched her, she tended to grin. "Can I get you anything? Something to drink, maybe?"

"You can call my carriage and see that the Verrets have a way home. I don't believe I'll be up for dancing tonight, and to be perfectly honest, I'd like to go home."

"Don't you worry, Miss Augusta, I'll make the arrangements." As he patted the cushion next to her in comfort, she gently covered his hand in her little one.

"Your sister is watching," he whispered, but hoped to God, the Devil, and whatever else was listening that she wouldn't remove her hand.

"I don't care, and neither does she," she huffed, voice trembling. "She's a terrible chaperone. My head is throbbing, I woke up in a new place to the sight of Dr. Auvin, I'm about to cry, and I want my mammy, even if she is the one who laced me up too tight. Please hold my hand, Goodnight."

Chuckling lowly, he leaned back slightly to keep his lips away from her cheek, which was slowly filling with color. "You'll be just fine, Miss Augusta, don't you worry. Right as rain, remember?"

He noticed that she unsuccessfully tried to grin through her quivering lip, and he squeezed her hand, more than uncomfortable but unwilling to release her hand. "Oh, please don't cry. I couldn't bear to see your pretty face like that. Your eyes are much too lovely to be red and watering."

And then he realized their position. He realized exactly how perfectly Augusta's fingers fit between his, and how he'd never known more fear in his life than when he'd carried her from the ballroom. Even while her head was covered in a bandage and she didn't have a lick of color to her face, he wondered how he'd ever thought she'd been anything other than absolutely beautiful.

Damn Ames.

Suddenly, in thought of what he was about to say, his heart raced and he thought for a moment that they would need to find him a divan. He licked his lips and lowered his voice so that Salome couldn't hear. "Miss Augusta. I'd like to ask your mama if she'd allow me to come calling on you. Formally, that is, not our rendezvous by the willow, but I want to be assured you wouldn't mind me doing so first."

The trembling subsided as her lips pulled back into that enrapturing, partially-bashful smile. "I'd be delighted to receive you properly."

He didn't know how long he sat there like a fool, but when he came to his senses, he said, "Excellent. I'll go call your carriage now."

No matter that she was leaving and he wouldn't get a full dance, Goodnight couldn't suppress the spring in his step as he sent for the red Evercreech carriage. He returned to find her sitting up on the divan with her palms pressed to her eyes, and again Goodnight thought propriety be damned as he put a hand around her back to help her to the door. He all but picked her up to put her in the carriage, lifting her skirts with one hand and keeping the other in hers. Her chin in the air, Salome gave him another once-over down her nose, eyes narrowed, though thoughtfully instead of in anger.

"She fainted when she made her debut. I've always suspected that Mammy laces her too tightly when she knew it was an important event," she said, steely as ever, and with a toss of her beautiful head, she followed her sister into the carriage.

Long after the party had finished, he laid awake in bed while his thoughts raced. Hadn't she fit just perfectly she against his side? And the way she had beamed when she told him she'd be delighted, and…if he'd been anywhere close to sleep, he was suddenly wide awake. How had he missed that?

 _Please hold my hand, Goodnight._

 _Goodnight._

* * *

Goodnight somehow has even Billy rocking with laughter. "Jesus, I thought I'd killed her that night, Billy!"

Billy waves for Goodnight's whiskey, and the older man takes a swig before he passes it over. He swipes a hand over his face, wiping off the laughter but leaving a smile. "I reckon if I had, Sal would have killed me for making her seem like an even worse chaperone. I couldn't understand that night why Gus loved her so.

"We had a whole lot of money back then, didn't want for anything. I told you we ran a sugar plantation; if we'd had only a third of the land we did, we could have profited more than the two biggest cotton plantations combined. Her mama didn't put up any opposition when I asked to call on her. Likely her daddy would have handed her over on a silver platter right there if I'd asked."

"Why didn't you?" Billy blows out a long, smooth stream of smoke, lazily, at ease, but that's Billy. Never hurried, but always purposeful. Goodnight thinks he would have made a good southern gentleman in that aspect, had he looked a little different.

"I didn't think that was what she wanted." Goodnight holds out his hand, and without hesitating, Billy passes him the cigarette. "Something happened that night that made us change, but then again, near death experiences will do that to people. We lost the formalities, took to calling each other only by our given names, and by the end of the season, I was Goody to her, and she was Gus, though she swore up and down she hated it. But she was warmer after that night, and I felt...Goddamn, it was like I struck gold. I passed the test, and she opened up to me just a little bit more, just enough that I had to keep going."

Goodnight closes his eyes as he breathes out the smoke. "I wrote sonnets after that night, Billy, more beautiful than even the Bard could have managed, about her eyes, the way she said my name—after all this time, I can still see how her lips formed around the word. There was one likening us to the stroke of midnight between Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, and I reckon sure hit that one on the head." He takes another drag and hands it back to Billy. "They're all gone now."

Billy's been silently listening to Goodnight weave his yarn, just like always. Always he reminds Goodnight of a cat, his predatory gaze, reserving judgement until the very end. In a way, Goodnight wishes he would go ahead and stop him. He wishes Billy would finally tell him what a sorry good-for-nothing he is. But Billy never does, just lets Goodnight go on weaving, lets him go down every rabbit trail and burrow into every fox hole that he needs to. That's just Billy, though, waiting through Goodnight's moods.

They never do things in a hurry. With the patience of a saint, Billy eases through life at his own pace, slipping and sliding through time, while Goodnight wanders somewhere nearby, trying to keep up but knowing Billy won't get too far. Knowing he's the one who gets away. He used to stride, taking each day as it came, head held high. Now it's Billy who keeps his head up, and on his best days, Goodnight takes a glance to see what's going on.

Some days Billy reminds Goodnight of Salome, the way he watches so carefully but with a detached disinterest. How gracefully he moves, and with an air that he knows it too. The way he can silence a conversation, even amongst people he doesn't know, with a single glance. The way he can look at you so disdainfully and then make a joke that tells you he considers you a friend.

"I would have done it right then, though—married her, that is. By the end of that season, goddamn, I was in love with her. But I didn't. I waited a few weeks after we got home before I went calling on her. It was May by then, and Lord, Hell was breaking through the Earth's crust, but I would have sat on the porch all day with Gus and her mama if I could have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Fun fact: there's a myth that in the Antebellum South, they had these things called courting candles, which were candles in adjustable spiral holders, and whenever the candle melted to the holder, it was time for the suitor to leave.**

 **Special thanks for warqueenfuriosa's help in all this.**

 **As a disclaimer: I do not own Magnificent Seven, but it's out on download/DVD now if you'd like to have a copy.**

* * *

From his place across the yard, Sam glanced up through his lashes, a movement that most people were unable to see and which he'd learned from years of careful practice. Mrs. Evercreech was looking between the fields and her daughter, mouth pressed together in a thin line as she debated what to do: fulfill the duty to her daughter, or fulfill her duty as a great lady; she took a deep breath. "Augusta, I will only be a moment. Mammy is right inside the parlor there, so don't think about being bold. Sam," she called to where he was splitting wood. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand as Mrs. Evercreech spoke in hushed tones, telling him to do nothing he hadn't already planned on.

"Remember, Augusta, you can never rebuild a reputation," she said sternly, stepping into the wagon.

She had no sooner vanished from sight than a large chestnut horse trotted down the lane and up to the porch. In one graceful motion, the man who must have been Goodnight Robicheaux had slipped from his horse and swept the hat from his head, bending over in a small bow while he took a hand and pressed it to his lips. "Miss Augusta Evercreech, _ma chèri_ , it is an honor to be received."

"There's no need for theatrics, Goody," Miss Augusta said softly as her neck flushed, lips pressed together in an excited but bashful smile.

"I'm not being theatrical, darlin'. I'm genuinely grateful that I was allowed this opportunity." With a smile of his own, he kissed her hand again.

Sam read that Miss Augusta's eyes told him to stop, but the smirk on her lips said she was pleased. She slowly pulled back her hand and motioned towards him formally. "Mr. Robicheaux, this is my friend Sam."

"So this is the friend that I have heard so much about. How do you do, Sam?" With his hand extended, Goodnight crossed the yard in a few long, loping strides. "Goodnight Robicheaux is the name."

Casting a glance at Miss Augusta for approval, Sam cautiously shook Goodnight's hand, taken back that a white man of such status would ever offer to shake hands. Even among the slaves, the name Robicheaux carried weight; the family was known for giving out substantial Christmas gifts and a massive party at the end of the work seasons. "Name's Sam, Mr. Robicheaux."

"Goodnight will suffice. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Any friend of Augusta's is a friend of mine."

Sam took in this man: elegant and confident, with wide shoulders that hinted he could have an imposing physique if he chose, carrying himself in a way that showed he was both proud of who he was and happy to just be alive. His eyes gleamed when he said Miss Augusta's name, and Sam finally grinned and looked back to Miss Augusta, shaking his head. "You found yourself a suave beau, Miss Augusta."

"Suave, am I? Well. I like you." Augusta laughed while Goodnight, chest puffed up, crossed back to her and fixed himself on the porch steps, long legs splayed out in front of him, elbows propping himself up. Looking at him lounging on her porch, so debonair and relaxed, Sam could tell that she couldn't keep away a smile, and he was almost half-inclined to grin himself.

"Goody, you're too much sometimes."

"I'm enough for you." This man leaned towards Miss Augusta, eyes never leaving her face, continually giving her a look as if she had hung the moon and the stars and named them all, and Sam doubted he realized any of it. If Miss Augusta had asked him to take her to China at that very moment, Sam thought Mr. Goodnight wouldn't even hesitate. When Mrs. Evercreech returned from her nursing duty, he snapped to his feet, bowing low and flattering Mrs. Evercreech so much that she didn't know what to do besides wave him back down.

And Miss Augusta, she was glowing. She hung on to his every pretty word, lips perpetually turned up at the corners, and Sam was happy. He'd seen her sisters sit on the porch with beaux before, never with an expression like the one on Miss Augusta's face, and Sam felt a bittersweet happiness that her time had finally come.

And then he felt old.

* * *

That evening after dinner, Augusta sat at the table in Mammy's cabin while Sam polished shoes, both taking comfort in each other's quiet presence. Sam knew why she was there, but he'd been enjoying stringing her along, talking about Miss Anastasie's new baby, how Mammy had prepared the pie for dinner, which he'd received a stolen piece of from Miss Augusta. He knew Miss Augusta was ready to explode with anticipation. Hiding his smirk, he said offhandedly, "That's some beau you've got, Miss Augusta."

"What did you think," Miss Augusta asked, instantly perking up, and Sam chuckled to himself. The three other sisters, though older than him, had always served to be a pain in his neck. Miss Anastasie had _opinions_ on everything and had never been satisfied with anything that he'd done. Nine times Miss Salome had been mean as a snake, but on the tenth time she'd been perfectly sweet, and he could still never tell if it was the ninth or tenth time; and Miss Oceane—well, everyone had celebrated her wedding with what an outsider would probably consider a little too much fervor. But then came Miss Augusta, forever overlooked with Miss Oceane's bullying and theatrics, just as quiet and sweet as she could be. He'd found a secret friend in Miss Augusta, white skin and all.

"Oh, Miss Augusta, you know it don't matter what I think."

"It does too, Sam. You know that I care."

Sam considered telling her what he'd observed that afternoon, but he wanted her to come to those conclusions on her own. Instead, he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. "Well, I think he's awfully moony," Sam teased, only to watch Miss Augusta blush. He chuckled and reached for another boot. "You just be careful, Miss Augusta. Even if you're fond of each other, you've still got a reputation."

"Oh, I know, I know. We're perfectly good."

 _I'm being good._ He'd heard that phrase before, once when she'd disappeared for the day to "read" and had come back with little progress made in the only book she'd taken with her. Brow furrowed, Sam's head jerked up as he faced her, and only then did she seem to realize what she had said. Her mouth dropped into an 'o,' and she shook her head faintly, paling.

Eyes nearly popping out of her head, Augusta stammered, "I—I don't...I—Sam. Don't jump to any conclusions, now. You saw him today, and he's a perfect gentleman."

After knowing her for her whole life, and as wise and level as she could be, it was easy for him to forget her naivety. Now he sorely wished she hadn't said anything at all and that he hadn't made a connection. The last thing he needed was for something to go wrong and people to find out that he had known something was up. "Miss Augusta…" he groaned.

"Sam, you listen to me. Now, whatever you're thinking isn't true."

"Miss Augusta, you're going to get me in trouble. Just imagine what would happen if my ma found out that I knew."

"She's not going to find out because there's nothing to find out," Miss Augusta insisted with a determined look that reminded him too much of Miss Salome, brows coming together and chin raising just so. She swallowed hard. "Sam, when have I ever let you get in trouble?"

A chuckle escaped his lips before he could catch it. "Don't play that card, Miss Augusta."

In response, Miss Augusta hummed. Sam just smirked, then shook his head with another chuckle. As much as it irritated him to acknowledge it at the moment, she was right; Sam kept his head low for the most part, but if there was ever the slightest indication that he was about to be in trouble, Miss Augusta was always there to wipe away any blame. "Do you hope he marries you?"

"Oh, I think any girl with enough sense to walk straight would hope that he married them," she said wistfully, and when she caught herself, her neck was set aflame. Sam chuckled again, but suddenly solemn, she placed her hand on his arm. "Sam, promise me something."

"I'll do my best."

"No matter who I marry, whether it's Goodnight Robicheaux or…or Josiah Miller, for all that we know, you'll come with me."

Sam sat back in shock. He blinked once before he said, "Miss Augusta, you know I can't promise you that, and even if I could, I have family here."

"We'll bring them too. It'll be you, me, Mammy, and Ruth. That's the way it's always been…well, it's been like that for about five years with Ruth, but it's always been you, me, and Mammy. I couldn't imagine going anywhere without y'all." They sat there in silence for a moment before Augusta asked, "Sam, what do you want?"

He snorted in amused disbelief. "Where is this coming from?"

"Well, I'm sitting here asking you to come with me, but maybe you don't want to, so what is it that you want?"

Sam rubbed at a place on Mrs. Evercreech's boot that he'd already done, not wanting to see her face when he said, "I want to get on my own horse and ride wherever I please."

From the corner of his eye, he could just see her nod ever so slightly, but Miss Augusta didn't say anything more to him for the rest of the evening, which was what he'd been afraid of; he was grateful for all that she'd done for his family, but he'd be lying if he said he wanted to work on a plantation until the day he died. They sat in silence until the rest of his family came in, at which point his sister hopped right into the chair next to Miss Augusta, who pulled out a child's reader and paper and scooted her chair closer.

Eventually Sam finished with his polishing and leaned back to watch his sister's lesson, stretching his arms overhead after a long day. Perhaps he'd been wrong to say it, but he'd grown up with Miss Augusta, and he'd always been able to speak with her. She'd been right when she'd said it had always at least been the three of them, and if she wanted him to come with her when she left, then what right did he have to say no? Given his choice, though, he would take his family and leave for somewhere new, someplace he could do as he pleased without anyone to answer to.

Not that he wouldn't miss his friend Miss Augusta.

* * *

"Sam…" Augusta began thoughtfully. "I've been told his name was the first word I said. He's about three years older than you, so he grew up right between Oceane and me, and you know how Oceane is. Between Oceane and Ana, and Sal getting fed up with them both, our house used to be so loud, and Sam wasn't. I liked how quiet he was. He was easy to smile, and when my only other option for a friend was Sal, who was nearly ten years older, we allied ourselves. I taught him to read and everything."

"That explains how he knew to call me suave. You better be careful though, lot of people won't like you doing that."

"Well, it's only improper if I get caught, I suppose, and he's real careful."

"That must be your motto." _Only improper if they got caught._ Despite the past few months of courting, they hadn't stopped meeting under the willow. Goodnight now traced circles over Augusta's palm as he interviewed her. "Tell me, Gus—"

"I told you not to call me that." That was her answer every time he said it, and every time her tone told him that she didn't quite mind.

"—exactly why do you get along with Salome so well when she's so ornery?" If it meant he could listen to her, Goodnight would be content to lie next to her and ask every question under the sun about her family. He loved the way she tilted her head side to side as she spoke, the way her lips moved as she formed the words.

When Augusta laughed, she tipped back her head and cocked it to the side ever so slightly. "Oh, Sal may be ornery, but she's much more sensible. She thinks Oceane and Ana are downright stupid, they drive her mad. And she's really not so bad. She may seem...cold, but she really isn't. I can count on her."

"Sans chaperoning responsibly."

"You're telling me. Look at this, I have a scar!" Augusta brushed back her hair to reveal a long, thin white slash across her temple, and for the first time, Goodnight realized she had kept her hair over it for the entirety of the season.

"You sure do." Sitting up, he swiped a finger down the raised skin, a reminder of how he'd let her go, how she had crashed to the floor because he hadn't held on, that he hadn't helped her like she had needed. His face contorted involuntarily. "Gus, I'm real sorry about that."

"Oh, Goody you can't blame yourself. You were the only one who tried to help me. This was Mammy's doing, and I reckon she's real proud of it, now that you're calling on me and everything. But we were talking about Sal. She's better than Ana or Oceane at chaperoning, that's for sure. She may not say anything, but she keeps an eye out."

His face must have told her that he disagreed, that he disagreed very much and it was _his_ fault, because her lovely green eyes softened into an expression that he hadn't seen before. Before he fully realized what she was doing, Augusta had raised her little hand and was skimming it down his own temple, leaving a burning hot trail in its wake no matter how cold her hand was, and his breath hitched at the contact. She left her hand on his cheek, running her thumb over the bone. Voice low enough that he leaned in closer, she whispered, "Goody, sweetheart, this isn't your fault. Imagine the scene I would have caused on the dancefloor—better that you got me to the side than I dropped there in the center of the room. And I'm right as rain now, just like I said I'd be."

When she still didn't take him to be convinced, she continued, "Goody, I don't blame you at all. In fact, you're the person I blame the least. I mean, I'd told the twins and Sal that I was too tight, but they didn't care a bit."

It had been a year since he'd first spoken with Ames. He'd asked if Goodnight loved her, and Goodnight had answered that he didn't know her enough to say. By now he knew that she loved the color purple. She drank her tea with cream and two cubes of sugar, and though she'd never admit it out loud, she didn't think she was as pretty as her sisters, but Goodnight thought they couldn't compare; he still longed to sink his fingers through the mane of black curls that was her hair. And he'd get there eventually. He didn't know everything about her, but he knew that he loved her and he'd find out everything as soon as he could.

The words bloomed in his throat but caught on his lips, and when he couldn't get them out at first, he swallowed them and tried to find a different way. He needed the moment to be perfect, for his expression to come out in a way like none other, beautiful enough to fit his feelings and her, lasting enough that she'd remember it no matter how many times she read similar declarations. She had to understand there was something above ardently and souls being made from the same thing, and she had long since bewitched him. But nothing suitable came to mind, and he could not force the moment.

Instead, he resumed tracing circles on her palm. How fortunate was he that she had decided to hop, hop, hop right across the creek that day? But as much as he loved being able to trace circles on her palm, he sorely wished he could hold something more than her hand.

"That tickles," she said, and jerked away her hand when he lightened his stroke.

"I won't do it again," he told her, and held out his own hand for hers again.

When Augusta hummed—hummed, not giggled—closed mouth, her green eyes crinkling, Goodnight wondered if people were more intoxicating than alcohol. "I know you will, though."

"Only because it makes you smile."

With a blush, Augusta rolled her eyes. "You're too much, Goody."

But she gave him back her hand.

* * *

Goodnight is not a stupid man by any means, and he supposes that's what he hates so much about retrospect: exactly how stupid it makes him feel. When he looks back, he wonders how he could have been so blind to the events that unfolded, how he could have ever imagined that things would pan out differently. Where his vision had once been clouded by a dreamy mist, he can see so clearly now how foolish he had been. Had he been able to see clearly then—oh, how things would have been different.

"Have you ever noticed how hard it can be to tell the most important people that you love them?" Billy doesn't answer the question. "Right now, I could go downstairs and whisper it into the barmaid's ear sweetly enough to make her swoon, but when I was there underneath the willow with Augusta, and she had those eyes turned up to me, she may as well have been stuffing my mouth with her family's cotton."

He supposes it had been so hard for him to tell her because he had wanted perfection. He had wanted it to be beautiful because she was beautiful and had read so many beautiful proclamations, and no matter what he came up with, it hadn't felt like it was enough. Had he been able to see clearly then, he wouldn't have hesitated to simply blurt it out, perfection be damned. He knows now that sometimes thoughtfulness is more eloquent than perfection.

* * *

A blade of grass tucked between his lips, Ames leaned his head back in Mathilde's lap with a deep breath, closing his eyes against her chatter. Mathilde paid him no mind and continued gossiping about the people who were mere feet away. Augusta kept trying to hush her out of the fear that someone would overhear, though she was laughing too much to make any progress with that task, and Goodnight watched on with fond amusement.

"Oh, just look at them," Mathilde prattled on, swatting away Augusta's hand. "I never thought she'd do it, but would you look at them. I guarantee you that he'll marry her. Who would have thought, Micah and Minnie? Oh, the vazey little ratbag."

With another great sigh, Ames, eyes still closed, reached up and patted her lips. "Shh, Mattie. I swear you talk more than Goody sometimes."

"I would like to point out that I have not said a single word until this moment," Goodnight huffed, feigning hurt. "Silent as the grave, I've been."

Ames cracked an eye at him. "Feeling all right?"

"Right as rain," Goodnight conceded, winking at Augusta when she caught his eye. She settled back closer to him, Mathilde now scowling across the lawn at her younger sister.

The four were relaxed on Augusta's blanket, under the shade of a tree outside the church. Ames looked resigned to sleep the day away on Mathilde's lap, not caring that they were unmarried and in public, but Mathilde, with too much energy, would never let him do such a thing when there was so much going on. There were people to watch, food to eat, games to play, and Goodnight knew it was only a matter of minutes before she would be dragging him behind her as they found some sort of mischief. Despite Mathilde's palpable energy, Augusta seemed to be more inclined to follow Ames's suit, basking in the warm fall day and the picnic around them, and Goodnight fed off her, soaking in her tranquility as he edged himself closer.

As Mathilde resumed her gossiping, Ames heaved himself to his feet, attempting a look of frustration but falling short with adoration in his eyes. "Come on, you grump. Maybe some food will quiet you down."

"They make me happy. Even when they bicker, it's obvious they love each other," Augusta said when they were far enough away. She turned her round face up to him, and Goodnight reflexively pushed her curls away from her lovely eyes if only to be able to touch her. Once again, he tried to force the words, but they stuck somewhere inside him.

The corners of Augusta's mouth twitched like she knew what he was trying to do, and she scooted over so that their shoulders brushed, looking away from him to the crowd. Goodnight followed her gaze past the church until his eyes landed on a group of children running around each other. "See the little girl with the blue pinafore? Aubergine curls and the big cheeks? That's my niece, Posie, Salome's daughter. She's two. Isn't she precious?"

"Well, I'd say that depends on whether she takes after Salome or Dorian," Goodnight said, and Augusta hummed in amusement next to him. He watched as the little girl in question tottered after the bigger children, half buried in the knee-high grass, not keeping up very well but not seeming to mind one bit, smiling away no matter how far they got. "I'm going to assume Dorian."

He knew Augusta was nodding more than he saw it. She surprised him by saying, "Tell me about your family, Goody. We always talk about mine."

Goodnight inhaled deeply as he thought about what to say. "Well, there's only Valentine and me. She's a bit of a character, wants to be privy to every secret in New Orleans, and she knows she's as magnificent at the piano as she is beautiful. She ferocious as a lion while looking as docile as a housecat. A Valkyrie with the face of Venus. She thinks she's the center of the universe, not that she'd ever let anyone other than us know it."

"But you love her anyway," Augusta added, to which Goodnight nodded, searching for his family in the crowd. His father had surprisingly roused himself from bed earlier that morning and insisted that he was well enough to attend the annual picnic. When he couldn't find them easily, he turned his attention to Augusta instead.

"And my mama may have given Val her looks, but she did not give her the same personality. Val does as she pleases, but Mama's...regal. She's gracious and graceful, everything a woman is supposed to be. Very proper, so if she found out about our Wednesdays, I'd likely be beheaded. Her daddy died fighting in Texas, and she's extremely proud of that. And my daddy...well, you know my daddy."

Augusta shook her head, curls dancing and a smile spreading across those enticing lips; reading about kisses did not suffice when presented a beautiful woman. "I adore your father, Goody. He's one of the nicest men I've ever met. One time—do you want to know a secret, Goody?"

"Darlin', I want to know all of your secrets."

"Well, Oceane used to go through these cycles where she decided I was too fat. One time when I was about eight, we were here at the church picnic, and Mrs. Rubadeau had made her massive cookies—the kind Micah's eating now—but when I tried to take one, Oceane threw a fit, saying she couldn't have a fat sister. Embarrassed the living daylights out of me, she did. But your father saw, and when she'd gone away, he came over to me with four of those cookies in his hand and said he always ate two when no one was looking. He sat there and ate them with me, and when we'd finished, he told me life was too short not to have sweets. Then he said my dress was the perfect shade of green to go with my eyes, and that was that, he was on his way elsewhere."

It was just the sort of thing his father would do. Goodnight could imagine Maxence seeing a little, round-cheeked Augusta scowling away at her redheaded sister, likely thinking sharp thoughts that she wouldn't say aloud, and looking longingly at Mrs. Rubadeau's cookies; of course he would have taken pity on her. "That sounds like my daddy, all right. He doesn't believe in frowning and can't stand to see people upset, least of all ladies and children, and you fit both those categories."

"And you love him very much." Goodnight nodded slowly, impressed with how Augusta could understand what he was saying just by reading his face and hearing his tone. She was quiet for a moment, searching his face for the words he wasn't saying. "There's something you're not telling me."

For a moment, he remembered the way Augusta had clutched his hand while she'd lain on the divan at the Castex ball, asking him to provide her some sort of relief and support. He remembered the way her lip had trembled, and he wished he could be granted that same option to let her comfort him as his lip trembled. "My daddy…he isn't well."

Like the day at the creek, her face softened, and he hoped to God that she would touch his cheek like the past time, no matter how inappropriate it was and who could be watching. But she kept her hands to herself, though her eyes, warm and—and something he couldn't quite place—danced over his face in a way more comforting than he ever would have imagined.

"Goody," she whispered, achingly low and soft, "I'm so sorry to hear that."

A grin ghosting over his lips, Goodnight gingerly took her fingertips in his to bring them to his lips, and if he wasn't mistaken, Augusta leaned towards him, tempting him to do something he would most likely regret. Probably. At least, he'd regret it under the circumstances.

"Oh, you'll never guess what just happened! We were—whoo, I'm so sorry! Mattie, you're interrupting," Mathilde cried, scolding herself, returning in a flurry with Ames on her heels, though she nearly wheeled around on him when she realized the position Goodnight and Augusta were in.

"You weren't interrupting anything, Mathilde," Goodnight insisted, dropping Augusta's hands as she collected herself. Part of him was relieved that Mathilde had stopped him from doing anything foolish, while the other part said, _To Hell with it, Goodnight, Old Time is still a-flying._

Mathilde exchanged a glance, one Goodnight couldn't decipher, with Ames, who licked the remains of whatever he'd been eating off his fingers, smiling away gleefully, the goddamn cherubim. When he'd cleaned himself sufficiently, he said, as though nothing had happened, "Let's play a game. _Petanque_ is already claimed, but we haven't had our annual horseshoe match, Goody, and I'll bet my money that I have the better teammate—no offense, Augusta."

"Ames, you couldn't win horseshoes if your opponent was blind," Goodnight teased, forgetting all the woe about his father and the words he just couldn't say to Augusta. He stood, brushing off his pants, and held his hand out to Augusta. "Come along, Gus. I have yet to lose a game of horseshoes to Ames, and he seems to have forgotten that."

With a half-hearted wave, Augusta tried to shake him off. "Oh, no, you don't want me on your team—"

"There's no one else I'd rather have." When she hesitated, Goodnight pulled a long face. "Darlin', don't make me ask Josiah Miller. It's not fair for me to have to ask him when I have someone much more beautiful available."

Rolling her eyes, Augusta took a deep breath and held out her hands for him to help her to her feet, and the pair made their way across the lawn to where Ames was already attempting to prepare the court while he fussed with Mathilde over where she was supposed to stand.

* * *

"May I kiss you?"

Over the cheering of the crowd, Goodnight didn't think Augusta had heard him, the way she kept clapping and laughing, her head tipped back and to the side just so, nearly letting the crown of orange blossoms slip off, but eventually her eyes rolled up to his, glittering gleefully. "Kiss me? Oh, what a scandal! Only if I'm not looking."

Again she laughed, filled with the merriment of the day, obviously not thinking he was serious, as nothing about the day except for the vows had been. When Ames and Mathilde passed by, Augusta brushed her friend's gloved fingers, and the other girl embraced her excitedly before she kept going down the line of guests. It was then, while Augusta was watching the couple leave, that Goodnight bent down and pressed his lips to her cheek, quick as a flash but long enough that she realized what he was doing.

Already buggy eyes nearly popping from her face, Augusta's head whipped around so fast that if he hadn't moved she he did, they would have collided. "Goodnight!" she gasped, neck on fire, and her hands flew up to cover it.

Goodnight's lips quivered until the deep, mirthy laughed broke through, and when Augusta finally dropped her hands, he tangled his fingers in hers. No one was watching them anyway.

Perhaps he'd had too much to drink as well.

* * *

"Ames and Mathilde got married at the end of that September." _Marry in September's shrine, your living will be rich and fine._ The wedding had been the biggest affair outside of Mardi Gras, with guests coming from five different parishes for what had turned out to be a perfect fall day. A pair of fair-haired seraphims, the bride and groom had spent the entire morning laughing away and likely wouldn't have cared how the ceremony went so long as there was a party to follow. "Life was one big laugh for Ames, and I reckon he thought he'd get that with Mattie."

"Did he?"

"Oh, hell yeah," Goodnight scoffs, and even Billy smiles. "Hell yeah. Mattie was just a sillier, louder version of Ames. Marriage wasn't going to make either one of them calm down, and they both knew it. Sure, they did their matrimonial duties, but if there was a chance to play, they didn't think twice about taking it.

"I was the best man, Gus was a bridesmaid. I'd told Ames that I wouldn't monopolize her at socials, but that day, I didn't care. That day, the drinks kept flowing, and the music kept playing, and I couldn't let her go. We danced every single dance together, so ungracefully and wildly, though I'm not sure many people realized, or at least cared, after so many drinks. The breakfast was supposed to end at noon, but there wasn't a single person who left until a good four hours after then.

"When they returned from their honeymoon in October, I visited Ames to welcome him home, as was customary, and he told me Mattie, doing her duty as the new Mrs. Rubadeau, had already invited Augusta over for tea that Friday. That was my chance. I asked Ames to make sure she lingered for a few hours, just to give me enough time. Friday I rode over to Saltmore Hall and met with her parents."

* * *

The wax of the candle dripped dangerously close to its stand. Keeping the candle in his sight, Goodnight wiped his hands on his pants and willed the candle to grow or… _unmelt_. When it didn't, he licked his lips and took a deep breath.

"Augusta," Goodnight said as he stood to leave. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Mrs. Evercreech, familiar with his plan, and she made herself scarce. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his palms in case it gave away how nervous he was. Unaware he was even doing so, he twisted the brim of his hat in his hands and then cursed himself for doing so. _Goddamn, you look like a fool,_ he internally chided, stopping himself from running out the door. Why was this such a big deal? If he could make grand speeches about how lovely the clouds were, he could surely ask her a simple question.

While Goodnight struggled to get a hold of himself, Augusta merely remained in her seat, gazing up at him with such big, guileless eyes. He licked his lips again. "Miss Augusta, you know that my family always throws a ball on Fat Tuesday, and I—well, I'd hoped—that maybe—maybe, that is, if you'd like—you'd allow me the honor of escorting you."

Augusta's face lit up; her lips broke into a smile, and she released a little puff of air as a laugh. "You want to escort me to the ball?"

Goodnight tried to shake his head. "If you'd like."

Before he had time to blink, Augusta was out of her seat with a Verret-like squeal and waving hands. "Oh, Goodnight! To the Fat Tuesday ball? Oh, stars! What an honor!"

They were both beaming, both laughing, when suddenly Goodnight realized with no idea how they'd gotten there that he had Augusta's hands in his, and she was very close, with her beautiful smiling face upturned toward him. They were inches apart. He only had to move just so, just had to tip his forehead to hers, if he wanted to taste those red lips. He could do it so quickly she wouldn't have time to think. He'd wanted to know what she was like for so long now, and here she was—

When her mouth moved, Goodnight realized he'd been staring at her lips. He met her gaze, which flicked back and forth between his own lips and eyes. His heart pounded. Was it honorable? She was giving him the chance, but would it be right? His intentions were good, and he'd been courting her for months now.

"May I…" he began to ask but never completed the sentence, too enthralled with Augusta's curls bouncing up and down so close to him, her lips slightly parted.

Without realizing what he was doing, Goodnight found himself closing the distance between them, placing a hand on her cheek, drawing her closer with his other arm, and watching as Augusta's eyes faded closed. And then he felt her beneath him, tasted sugar and the tea they'd been drinking. She was so unfamiliar and soft that he was afraid he'd break her if he did anything more, but he wanted to so badly.

But he pulled away to find her eyes still closed and her lips parted from where his had been, and he had the urge to kiss her again, if only to keep that look, blissful and giddy, on her face. Slowly he removed his hand from her face, letting his thumb brush over her soft, blushing cheek. "I have to go. Before I get you in trouble."


	6. Chapter 6

**This is a whole lot longer than I wanted it to be, but there wasn't a good place to cut it off. As always, thank you, warqueenfuriosa, for your help.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own _The Magnificent Seven_. **

* * *

Hattie and Mathilde moved like a train; they could be heard before they were seen.

"Augusta," they called, hanging out the window as the Rubadeau carriage rocked down the busy street. "Augusta, oh Augusta!"

Genuinely worried, Augusta hurried out to the porch when she heard them, and Sam paused with his brush in the air where he was adding a fresh coat of paint to the fence. When the carriage pulled up, the girls hardly waited for the driver to fully stop before they were making their exits unassisted. They lifted their skirts to run to Augusta, who was starting to come off the porch to them. "My dears, whatever is the matter?"

"Oh, Aggie, we have news to tell you!" Hattie panted, while Mathilde waved Augusta away, saying, "No, no, go back up there. It's a secret, and you're going to need to sit down."

Augusta stopped in her tracks. The twins were privy to all sorts of secrets, but never any that caused them to run about the town amok; then again, now that Mathilde was married, they didn't need any supervision. "Sit down?"

Each sister took one of Augusta's arms and dragged her inside to the parlor, ignoring Mammy and little Ruth as they passed by. They placed her on the footstool and sat down across from her on the settee.

Augusta felt her heart racing. What news would they have like this, that would cause them to race down across town in such a hurry? What news would she need to sit down to hear? She had to remind herself that the twins couldn't do anything in a calm manner. Her heart raced, but the sisters merely exchanged looks with their lips pursed. She took a shuddering breath. "Hattie, Mattie, what…what is going on, pray tell?"

"You'll never guess what we saw," Mathilde began with a toss of her blonde head, trying in vain to catch her breath.

"We were just now at Violette's getting lunch. As we were leaving the restaurant, we just happened to look across the street. And you know what is across the street from Violette's," Hattie continued.

" _Adler's_ ," Mathilde breathed, in case Augusta did not know what was across the street from Violette's.

"Lo and behold, guess who was walking in."

Augusta's brow furrowed. Adler's? That was a jeweler, what could Hattie and Mathilde possible have to do with Adler's, unless Ames already been sent for a reconciliation gift? She opened her mouth but didn't know exactly what to say and closed it again.

Mathilde squealed and pressed her handkerchief to her beaming lips while Hattie waved hers wildly. "Goodnight Robicheaux!" Mathilde gasped, taking the handkerchief away from her lips only long enough to get out the words, and Hattie squealed too, nearly bouncing herself off the settee.

Augusta's heart stopped beating altogether, and her mouth dropped open. This had nothing to do with the twins.

 _Goodnight_.

Goodnight was going to marry her.

She had imagined he would, after everything they'd done, all the dances and escorts and times he'd come calling; honorable Goodnight Robicheaux trying so hard to keep himself in check while he played with her fingers and listened with rapt attention to every word she said—she had noticed, after all, no matter how indifferent he'd tried to remain, knowing Goodnight was a man of too much passion to ever be described as stoical. She had imagined he would propose, but now that she was faced with the possibility, she didn't know what to make of it.

"And we all know you're the only girl he has any sort of eyes for," Hattie laughed. She snatched up Augusta's hands as she bounced in her seat. "We have to be bridesmaids."

"We do, we absolutely have to. Your sisters are already married and so old, and we told you this first. I don't even care if I'm married, we can pretend like I'm not for the day!"

When she'd regained her breath, Augusta stammered. "I—I don't know what to say. My stars! He's going to propose?"

"Don't act so surprised, we've all known this was coming," Mathilde dismissed with another wave of her hand. "Of course you'll say yes, you have to. Then we'll be just like sisters. You know how he and Ames are."

"We suspect he'll do it at the ball. He is escorting you, isn't he?

"Oh, yes, the ball makes perfect sense. He probably expects to have you so giddy and your head spinning so much that you'll stand no chance of saying no."

A breathy laugh finally escaped Augusta's lips. The twins had seen Goodnight at the jeweler's, and he just had to marry her—he'd kissed her, after all! "Whatever shall I do, how do I act now that I know? Oh, I'll never be able to be around him, I'll be so frightened he'll ask! What shall I _wear_?"

The sisters were again pulling Augusta before she knew what was happening. "Let's go now. Call your mammy."

"Mammy," Augusta yelled over her shoulder as they scurried up the stairs. "Mammy, Ruth, come quick!"

Never one to let anything happen to her baby Gussa, Mammy was right on the three girls' heels, followed by Ruth. They came into Augusta's bedroom to find the girls already strewing dresses across the floor. "Miss Gussa, what's going on?"

"Goodnight, Mammy, it's Goodnight. The twins say they saw him going into the jeweler's. Oh, Mammy, what shall I wear? I mean—it must be for me, mustn't it? Unless...well, Val's birthday is coming up, I believe, and he does love glittering things. He has emerald _and_ garnet cufflinks, remember?"

In that moment, Mammy's chest swelled, and she positively beamed. "Whoo, Miss Gussa! Don't you worry, child, we'll find you something. Lord, to think my baby Gussa is getting married," Mammy said, as she set about to helping Augusta out of her current dress. "My baby Gussa. We'll make you look prettier than Miss Oceane, Lord knows you deserve to be."

For the next hour, Mammy worked tirelessly to button and unbutton Augusta's dresses, to pin her hair this way and that, while Hattie and Mathilde emptied the contents of Augusta's wardrobe onto her bed.

"That just won't do."

"No, no, this makes you look sickly, and no man wants a sickly wife. Why do you think Olive and Opal haven't gotten anywhere?"

"Ugh, Augusta, what is this thing? Get rid of it!"

"That just won't do. It just ain't fitting for you or Mr. Robicheaux."

"Oh, Mammy—don't try anymore, I am not fitting into this."

"Say, doesn't Salome have a few dresses here still? You and Salome are close in size."

"You best make sure she isn't in there! It just won't do for you to be wearing Miss Salome's old rags, Miss Gussa."

"Stars above, Salome has terrible taste. How did that old hag ever manage to get married?"

"Here's one from Oceane's—"

"Go put that thing back now."

"Augusta, if we had known this is all you had, we would have brought our things over, Minnie's too. Oh, why couldn't he wait until we were home?"

Thirty dresses and the entirety of Augusta's wardrobe, as well as a few from Salome's, later, the three girls and Mammy gazed around the room forlornly, as if hoping that they had overlooked the right dress, but their eyes settled over one bad option after the other. Eventually Augusta sighed and picked up one with a blue tartan pattern. "I suppose this will do. It wasn't half-bad."

Before she could completely hold it up in front of the mirror, Hattie had snatched it away, a furious scowl on her lips, nose flaring. "You'll do no such thing. How could you even consider getting engaged in that? You're going to marry a _Robicheaux_! You have standards to meet."

Augusta shrugged violently with a huff. "It was the only one halfway decent." She turned towards her vanity mirror and looked in it, tucking away a curl that had escaped. She wasn't Salome and certainly not Oceane, or even Anastasie, and she'd never once thought poorly of her wardrobe, but now...

"Miss Gussa," Mammy said with an air of finality, and she moved behind Augusta to fix her mess of hair, smoothing each curl with practiced ease. "We're in New Orleans. We'll just go down the dress shop and see what they have, and if we can't find anything, we'll go on over to look at fabric. Won't take that long to make. And you've always been prettier than Miss Oceane."

When she'd finished, Augusta gave her a teary smile, and Mammy wiped at her eyes. "Don't you cry, baby. You were always the good one, you can't start crying now. This is something to be happy about."

With that, Augusta threw herself at Mammy and wrapped her arms around the older woman's neck, thankful she'd been given such a wonderful nursemaid. Mammy's own hands hovered uncertainly over Augusta's back, obviously unsure if she should return the gesture or keep from touching her young white charge. Finally she patted Augusta on the back and pried her off. The girls followed Mammy out the door and down the stairs to the front door where the Rubadeau carriage was still waiting.

* * *

"Oh, Augusta! Try this one!" Hattie cried from deep within the store. She rushed from a back room, where Augusta suspected she should not have been, with a mass of black fabric in her hands. "Hurry, try this one. I suspect you'll fit into it."

Hattie pushed her behind a curtain and stripped her of her dress before Mammy could get a word in edgewise, and Augusta emerged wearing a ball gown of black satin with a white ruffled strip around the middle of the skirt, and a white ruffle for sleeves that were off her shoulders. Hattie brought her to stand in front on the full-length mirror by the window, and when Mammy saw, she immediately set about to trying to cover Augusta's bosom. Hattie shooed her out of the way, gushing, "Oh, Augusta. You look so lovely! Just look at how it goes with your hair."

And for once, Augusta agreed that she made a striking picture in the mirror. She fiddled with her hair, moving it this way and that, turning her head different ways, not fully sure what to think of how the dress made her look; not even her favored green one made her feel so lovely. She liked how bright her eyes looked and how sharply they contrasted with her hair. She could put just the smallest amount of color on her lips when Mammy wasn't looking, nothing too bright, and let Mammy pin up the sides of her hair in that way that only she could do, and this dress would be just perfect of Fat Tuesday.

This must have been what it was like to be Oceane in every dress.

Augusta opened her mouth to speak when the bell over the shop door rang. "Damn it, Mathilde, I've been all over town looking for you today," called Ames. Augusta turned towards the voice, but immediately whipped back around, face and neck bright red. Behind Ames stood Goodnight, whose gaze she had just managed to avoid; why couldn't either man ever go anywhere without a shadow? She stared at her feet, praying to anything that would hear that he would go away—he may as well have caught her in her shimmy.

"I'm sorry, but I've had urgent business to attend. We can discuss this later." Mathilde was already trying to shove Ames out of the shop, and when he proved a worthy opponent, Hattie joined in the cause. "But now, you two need to leave."

In the mirror, Augusta watched Ames throw his hands in the air and stalk out, muttering under his breath about his silly wife; but Goodnight lingered in the doorway, resisting Mathilde's pushes, as if hoping she would finally catch his eye. When she did, the little blush that had left returned tenfold. Goodnight tipped his head to her. "Good day, Gus."

Good day _._ Good day, _indeed_. Here she was fussing over herself, head in the clouds at her appearance, and he had nothing more to say to her than that, not even with all his flowery language and poetry. As soon as he'd gone, Augusta rushed to the curtain. "Help me get this off."

"But Augusta—"

"I said help me get it off." Her face burned for an entirely different reason. How dare Ames bring him here, letting him catch her admiring herself; and she was angry that Goodnight had merely nodded and hadn't paid any mind to how she had looked. For a moment she'd thought she fit in with her sisters, even Valentine, but Goodnight hadn't noticed.

Mammy began to unlace the dress without another word, and Augusta took the one that Mathilde now offered.

* * *

Augusta's mammy, with eyes only for her little miss, had always been more suspicious of Goodnight than charmed by him, though she'd never been unfriendly. But when she answered the door a week before Fat Tuesday, he would have thought from her reaction that he'd been standing in the doorway without a stitch on him, not dressed in his best everyday suit and a new vest—boysenberry, Augusta's favorite shade—and ladened with a massive box, complete with a bow tied by Valentine in a surprising sweet streak. When she'd composed herself, she asked tentatively, "You here to see Miss Gussa, Mr. Goodnight?"

"If it suits her fancy." Preferably, it suited her fancy perfectly; if it didn't, he didn't think he'd be able to grow enough of another backbone to ever work up the nerve.

"Well, everyone's home, but Miss Salome is sleeping."

 _Imagine that,_ Goodnight thought, and he couldn't help wondering if Salome ever slept in her own home, even though he knew good and well she only slept over when she'd chaperoned Augusta the night before. "When will she wake?"

Mammy just shook her head with a huff, and the way she gripped the door made him think she wasn't going to let him in. "You oughta know by now Miss Salome's going to do whatever she feels like doing, and Mr. Goodnight, you wake Miss Salome, and ain't nobody going to like that."

Goodnight gave Mammy his lopsided smile, though she was completely right: waking Salome would most likely ruin his plan entirely. "I need to see her, Mammy. Mrs. Evercreech knew I was coming."

Her dark eyes, perfectly intelligent and observant, flickered over his attire, his gift, and Goodnight watched Mammy as an expression of understanding passed over her face. Though she kept her suspicious eye trained on him, she held the door open wider. "You wait there in the parlor, Mr. Goodnight."

Even though he had discussed it with Mr. and Mrs. Evercreech, Goodnight was partially surprised that Mammy had permitted him to see "her baby Gussa." He nodded and strode into the parlor, glad he had something to do with his hands. Taking a deep breath, he placed the box on one of the side tables and listened to the muffled voices of Mammy and Augusta above him, breathing out slowly through his mouth. Eventually the soft patter of her footsteps came down the stairs.

"I wasn't expecting you today," Augusta said, almost breathless, cheeks flushed and eyes happily wide. He didn't remember her being quite so becoming.

"I just…I needed to…well," he stammered at first, losing any hold he'd had of himself the moment she'd glided through the door. "How are you?"

The words spilled out of his mouth before he could catch them, and he knew he should just walk out. _Goddamn, Goodnight, why not just talk about the weather,_ he scolded himself. For someone so good with words, he found it funny that he could never get them out when he needed them the most.

"I am very well, thank you. And yourself?" He knew that she knew he wasn't there to ask how her day had been, but she would humor him nonetheless as she perched on the edge of the couch, hands folded neatly in her lap, regarding him with that happy little expression. Her long hair loose and tempting about her shoulders, she wore a dress he'd never seen before, likely new, an icy shade of blue that contrasted sharply with her dark curls; he lost himself in thought for a moment about how badly he wanted to let his fingers tangle in them, those beautiful temptations.

And then Goodnight's mind strayed to a day that seemed in another lifetime entirely, when he'd sat across from her at the Magees' barbecue and thought _approachable_ was what described her face the best. He disagreed now; now, her face could only be described as: _Run, you fool, before you ruin this._

She was too pretty for him to do this. She was too pretty, and his mouth was too dry, and his heart was beating too loudly.

There was what Goodnight would consider an uncomfortable pause while he tried to find even an ounce of courage inside him. He wanted her to close her eyes; he couldn't look into them and keep his nerves still at the same time. If he didn't piss himself, he'd consider the day a success. "Next…next week is Fat Tuesday."

"Oh, yes, I'm awfully excited." There, in her voice, he heard it: that slight edge that said she was nervous too. She had the voice of a storyteller, controllable to a fault, and if she had lost check over it, then maybe they were closer to the same page than he thought. And for some reason, that made him feel just a little bit better.

"Well, after the other day, I thought perhaps you'd like something new to wear." He gestured with his hat to the box and moved to hand it to her, the box Augusta had been trying to eye without being too conspicuous, and she perked up. Goodnight couldn't help but grin when she started to pull the ribbon off with childlike excitement.

"Oh," she breathed, jaw dropping and eyes becoming the size of saucers as the box fell onto her lap. She held the fabric to her chest. "Oh, Goody, you didn't."

"It looked stunning on you," he said, taking a seat beside her, and she blushed, cutting her eyes sideways and making the whole ordeal worth it.

Suddenly she smirked up at him and let her hands rest in her lap. "I was so angry with you the other day. I put this on and felt so pretty, and then you walked in and didn't say a thing except for, 'Good day, Gus,' and I was so embarrassed."

At her imitation of him, with her lowered voice and stern face, he allowed himself the luxury of a small snort, a few of his nerves leaving with it. "Never try your hand at acting, darlin'. A storyteller you are, but an actress you are not. Now tell me, why were you embarrassed?" He couldn't stop himself from brushing back the one curl that always refused to stay put, letting his fingers linger on her cheek, and his stomach jumped at the way she leaned into his touch.

So quietly that he almost didn't hear, she whispered, "I stood in the mirror and thought, 'This must be what it's like to be Oceane.' And then you came in and found me admiring myself so, and I felt so stupid. Oh, Goody, I just don't know what to say." She traced a finger over the soft fabric.

"This is too much," she whispered after a moment, and he was struck with an irrational panic that she wouldn't accept his gift. And if she didn't accept it, what was he to do then?

"Hogwash," he blurted, causing Augusta to look at him curiously, eyes bright in the shadows of the dimly-lit room. "Gus, this is nothing more than me trying to purchase your forgiveness and nothing less than an expression of my complete adoration."

"Forgiveness? You didn't even know I was angry, why do you need my forgiveness?"

There she went stuffing his mouth with cotton again. Why did he need her forgiveness? Because he'd been a coward all of these months, and he was not who she thought he was. He swallowed hard and willed Venus to come to his aid. "Because, Gus," he began, voice low, "these last few months, I have wasted my breath with every word that I have spoken to you. We have sat and talked for hours, and you have held me completely enthralled, but I have not even managed to allude to what needed to be said. So here I am to ask for your forgiveness that I have not told you exactly how much I love you."

All at once, the color drained from her face, the air from the room, and Augusta's head jerked up sharply from where she'd been admiring the dress again, eyes wide and… _horrified?_ If he'd told her he had smothered her family, he would have expected a better reaction. "Oh my," she breathed.

That had not been the reaction he'd wanted at all. But he'd made it through half of his mission, and he couldn't stop now. He was Goodnight Robicheaux, after all. "Augusta, I—"

"Yes," she blurted, voice wavering like she was on the edge of tears, one hand clutching the neck of her dress.

"What?"

"You're proposing, aren't you?" She pressed her hands to her cheeks and left the fabric at her neck wrinkled. "Oh, please tell me you are, or I've made a fool of myself."

"I—you weren't—how did—I wasn't— _what_ ," he all but whined with a stamp of his foot he'd never claim. This was not how it was supposed to go. He'd worked on his speech since Christmas, he'd perfected every little syllable in it, and she'd cut him off before he'd managed to get even a full sentence out.

"The twins, they saw you at Adler's, that's why we were in the dress shop. We just assumed that you…oh no."

The twins had seen him at the jeweler's. As fond as he'd grown of Mathilde, he couldn't help the feeling of something akin to rage that flared up in him; it was nothing short of a betrayal what she'd done. She was as good as his sister since she'd married Ames, she should have known that he wanted the exhilaration of an elaborate surprise. But when he remembered who Mathilde was, he knew he shouldn't have expected anything less. After a moment, Goodnight muttered, "Goddamn those Verret girls. I had a speech planned and everything. So that was your answer then?"

"My answer," Augusta repeated like it was a foreign concept that he'd expect her to answer his proposal. "My answer...oh! Why yes—"

Before she could get out the rest of what she'd been about to say or change her mind, Goodnight swooped her up in a flurry of skirts and handkerchiefs. For the second time, he pressed his lips to hers but was unable to keep them there from her laughter and his smile. Instead, he pressed his face into her shoulder and relished the feeling of her arms tightly around his neck, her hair tickling his cheek, the way she fit into his arm—and not when he was helping her into her carriage after she'd nearly killed herself and given him a heart attack in the process.

"Yes, of course," she said again when he pulled away.

"Well of course," Goodnight chuckled, adding a "how silly of me" in his tone, and Augusta blushed madly, from her neck up to her nose.

Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux. It had a nice ring to it.

 _Ring._

"Oh!" Goodnight cried, letting her go only to dig in his pocket. "You—here it is—you were so bewitching I forgot all about it."

All at once, his nerves returned, and, thumbing the smooth cover of the tiny little box, he fretted over her reaction. He took his time opening it to reveal a small gold ring, elaborately molded and his pet name for her inscribed on the inside, a prodigious diamond glittering in the center and surrounded by smaller ones. "I don't know how it'll fit, the band could be loose, or the stone could be too big on your finger. I just wanted something fine for you. If you don't...well, if you don't like it, that's fine, we can—"

"Goodnight Robicheaux," she scolded good-naturedly, "you put that ring on my finger."

* * *

"The most amazing thing happened after I proposed, Billy."

"What's that, Goody?"

"We had a few moments together before we'd awoken Salome and she came downstairs looking for murder, but when she saw Augusta's hand, she looked me in the eye. And then—then, her lips pulled back just ever so slightly." Staring dazedly at the wall, Goodnight grins at the memory and shakes his head, bottle poised halfway to his lips. "That day, Salome Saucier smiled at me."

Even Billy laughs, passing his worn-down cigarette towards Goodnight, who takes a long drag.

"That woman was the meanest snake in the world, but there she was smiling away—well, as much as she was ever going to smile. No matter how mean she was, Salome was still a woman, and a woman who didn't care that we'd just gotten engaged at that. She snatched Mammy and cornered Augusta, and I got booted out of the parlor faster than I could blink so that they could gossip. I stood out in the hall without a clue what to do and not a care in the world, besides the fact that I had not gotten to give the speech I'd been preparing for about three months."

He remembers looking at the door and hearing the hushed, gushing voices on the other side. At some point, Sam came through the back door, arms loaded with firewood, and found him standing there and asked what he was doing. Though he'd been in an excited stupor, he can recall grinning stupidly as he'd said, "Augusta is going to marry me." And then he remembers a wide smile lighting up Sam's face, teeth contrasting sharply against his skin, how his own grin had grown involuntarily at Sam's reaction.

"Mr. Goodnight, I have the thing for you. Come with me," Sam had said, disappearing off the hall through a little door, which led down a set of stairs into the kitchen. His load of firewood piled next to the stove, he'd removed a glass from the cabinet and poured Goodnight a large amount of whiskey, and Goodnight insisted he get another glass for himself.

When he thinks about it, it seems as though Sam had been next to him through every major event in his life, starting with the glass of whiskey they'd shared in the Evercreech kitchen. He hadn't even known Sam at that point, but that hadn't stopped the other man from being kind and celebrating. Sam was there at the beginning, there to help run Foxsong, and he was there at the very end too.

* * *

Goodnight kept having to remind himself to shorten his stride for Augusta to be able to trot along beside him, though he had a constant reminder when his shoulder turned not from his accord. Frequently, he had to pause as she bounced excitedly next to him, waving her handkerchief at the paraders in the street.

"They're absolutely magnificent, but I'm so afraid they'll catch one of the cars on fire," she gushed breathlessly, looking up with her wide eyes to Goodnight for his opinion, which he gave with an enthusiastic nod, and they resumed their amble down the street. "Did your family come tonight? I should like to see them if they did. I know Ana and Sal had planned on being here, but Oceane was too _sick."_

"My mama and Val were still contemplating it when I left home," Goodnight answered carefully.

No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Augusta still managed to hear the hesitancy in his voice, and she read the pain in his face. "Your father? Is he still not well?"

 _Not well_ didn't begin to cover it. His father had been _not well_ for months now. He was _not well_ when the cough set in, _not well_ when he lost his appetite, _not well_ when he started coming in earlier and earlier from the fields in the evenings. Maxence Robicheaux had passed the point of being not well when he took to being in bed more often than he was out of it, and now he complained daily of the pain in his chest, and there was always a pile of bloody handkerchiefs to be washed.

Goodnight startled when he felt her fingers tangling with his, and he almost chided her about being so open before he remembered that it was Mardi Gras, and even the biggest busybodies were not paying them any attention. He gripped her hand more tightly. "I'm worried, Gus. I only hope...I only hope September comes quickly."

She didn't say anything for a good moment. "We can change the date, if you'd like. I won't mind, not if you'll feel better." So softly that he almost didn't hear over the roar of the festivities, Goodnight turned to her suddenly, only to find her peering up at him, green eyes solemn in a way he hadn't seen since she'd attempted to soothe his conscience about the Castex ball.

"I couldn't do that to you."

"Goody, I would never forgive myself if you didn't enjoy that day. 'Marry in April when you can, Joy for maiden and for man.'" She shrugged. "Besides, that was Ames and Mathilde's month."

"Gus…"

"If we do stick with September, we'll have to pick the same day they did. Just to be spiteful."

"Augusta Evercreech, I never thought you'd be one for spite."

In the darkness, with the passing flambeaux throwing shadows on her face, Goodnight was still able to make out the sincerity mingling with mischievousness in those lovely green eyes and the faintest of smiles upon her lips; she was completely serious about changing the date, and part of him thought she was serious about spiting their friends. Stopping along the sidewalk, he dropped her hand and pulled her by the waist to his side, letting her linger there for the duration of the parade.

* * *

The following evening, three carriages lined the street outside the Evercreech house when the Robicheaux family arrived. First was the sleek black Saucier carriage with the elaborately scripted family name at the bottom of the door in gold, followed by the plain but long one belonging to the Abellards, and finally, the one Goodnight had hoped he would not see. Surprised that she'd even been invited, and that she'd recovered enough from whatever deathly illness she'd been inflicted by the day before, he steeled himself, knowing the dinner had taken an unexpected turn before it had even started.

"Oh. She's here," Valentine said disappointedly, faced pressed to the glass as always. Her expression filled with what could only be disgust, she glanced over her shoulder at her brother. "I was hoping this would be a fun evening with my new sister."

"Weren't we all," he muttered, straightening his cravat—new to match his proposal vest—one last time with a deep inhale.

"Be polite," Mrs. Robicheaux chided, giving Valentine a pointed look, to which she returned with a smirk, though it was replaced by a warm, beautiful beam the moment the front door opened, and Valentine effortlessly metamorphosed into the belle that everyone thought she was. Had she not been so outwardly charming, Goodnight thought she and Salome could have been close friends.

Inside, the entirety of the Evercreech family greeted them raucously, first the eldest, Anastasie, and her husband Amos; followed by Salome and Dorian, her husband; Oceane and Julien; and at the end of the line, Augusta stood with her parents, radiating excitement, and with one glimpse her way, Goodnight had the urge to swing her around in his arms. Valentine batted her eyes at each of them as she moved down the receiving line, effectively drawing attention away from the people they were supposed to be celebrating without an ounce of remorse.

"How're you doing, Sam? Mammy?" Goodnight greeted, offering to shake hands when he made it through the door and into the bustling foyer, passing his coat to Sam, who laughed with his wide, bright smile. Most people probably wouldn't give even the house slaves a passing glance, but Sam had proved to be genuine company over their drinks the previous day, and Augusta loved him so that Goodnight felt it would have been rude to excluded him.

"I told you this one was smooth, Miss Augusta," Sam joked to his mistress, who had scuttled over amid everyone cooing over Valentine. While his sister had everyone distracted, Goodnight took the moment to press a quick kiss to Augusta's temple.

"Don't I know it," she quipped with a teasing grin. "Oh, Goody, I'm so sorry about Oceane. We assume Mama told her, but Ana's sworn up and down she didn't, and I know Sal wouldn't. But it's no matter, you're are in for a real treat. Mammy made my favorite, alligator étouffée, and—"

"Where is your husband, Mrs. Robicheaux?" Mr. Evercreech asked above the noise. Perhaps he was hoping for another man to balance out the ladies, but he was only serving to get Mrs. Robicheaux worked up.

Together, Goodnight and Augusta turned while Mrs. Robicheaux tried to find an answer she could give without choking up, and Augusta was moving to her side before Goodnight could think to do so. "I'm so sorry to hear he was under the weather, Mrs. Robicheaux. But we know nothing can keep him down, and I'm sure he'll be right as rain before the ball, don't you, Goody?"

Goodnight knew that, unless acted upon by a miracle, his father would not be right as rain like Augusta suggested, but he understood what Augusta was doing. "Oh, yes, I'd say so. He sends his deepest condolences, Mr. and Mrs. Evercreech, that he was unable to be here tonight."

"I hope he feels better," Mrs. Evercreech conceded, but as hostess, she was more preoccupied by dinner. "Shall we move into the dining room, then?"

Mrs. Robicheaux and her two children shot Augusta grateful looks, and as they passed to the dining room, Goodnight pressed another kiss to her temple in thanks, his hand on her back as he guided her down the hall. That was the best part about being engaged, he thought, being able to touch her like this.

From listening to Augusta's stories, Goodnight had sometimes pondered what an Evercreech dinner would have been like with all the sisters together, but he drew the line at curiosity, and as for a desire to partake in one, he had none. No sooner had they sat down at the table, though, was he given the opportunity to witness one first hand, starting when Oceane took center-stage.

With her hair of fire and sweet face, New Orleans men regarded Oceane as the most beautiful of the sisters, looking as though she had just stepped from the Sistine's ceiling, slender and lithe, carrying herself with great ennui until she snapped, and she snapped often. A single glance at her gave the assumption that she was anything but _energetic_. "Dear me," she began, "this is a sight I never thought I'd witness. An engagement dinner for my baby sister and a Robicheaux."

She laughed spritely, bopping her head side to side, her little nose scrunching so faintly that one had to study her hard to tell if she was doing it; but that's what Oceane loved the most, being the center of everyone's and anyone's attention. One red eyebrow raising in a way much like Salome's, striking against the paleness of her face, she giggled, "Then again, I hadn't imagined an engagement dinner for my baby sister at all."

Next to her, and that was poor judgement on Mrs. Evercreech's part, Salome sighed heavily, fingers clenching around the wine glass halfway to her lips. "Oceane, if you were going to be a bitch, we wouldn't have invited you…and believe me, we tried not to."

"Salome," Mrs. Evercreech scolded sharply, fork clattering onto her plate, "there's no need to use such language."

"There was no need to tell her about dinner either, Mama."

"Honestly, Mama," Oceane huffed, ready to launch into another speech until her father cut her off with a sharp bark of her name. She pursed her lips, squaring her shoulders, but didn't continue with whatever had been on her mind.

With Oceane quiet, the table conversation lulled, no one sure what to say after the spat. Goodnight caught his sister's eye, who grimaced comically before she made herself giggle, though she did, for once, choose to show that tiny little bit of her that could be kind by saying cheerily, "Well, about that wedding!"

"About that wedding," Goodnight agreed, pouncing on the moment to bring up the issue he and Augusta had discussed the day before; he desperately hoped it wouldn't be too much of a hassle. "Well, we'd like to…to move up the date."

The table promptly erupted.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Move it up? Why ever would you want to do that? September is a perfect time."

"When did you want to move it?"

Goodnight shared a glance with Augusta, more amused than anything at their families' reactions, and somehow, she must have known that his heart was too heavy to speak. She smiled graciously, in attempt to remedy the situation, as she said, "April twenty-ninth."

At first, no said anything, and every fork stilled as they processed what Augusta had said. There was less than a month before then. How were they supposed to put together a proper societal wedding, and moreover, how were they supposed to put together a proper societal wedding for a Robicheaux, in twenty days, give or take? And _why_ , exactly, were they supposed to do this?

Salome was the first to react. With something that could have been surprise on her face, her eyes traveled down from Augusta's to somewhere just beneath the table. "Heavens," she gasped monotonically.

"Oh," Oceane gasped, catching on to what Salome was thinking, and her blue eyes widened with horror. "Oh, Augusta! Augusta, no!"

"Goodnight," his mother breathed, clutching her heart, "I thought I'd raised you better."

What were they talking about? He never knew that breeding reflected into the length of time between engagement. When Augusta had mentioned moving the wedding after he'd told her about his father, he'd thought nothing other than about how much he loved her. He glanced again to Augusta to see her shocked still in her chair, spoon dangling in her hand over the side of her bowl, jaw dropped and face redder than he'd ever seen on anyone, and then he whipped his head back and forth over the table, where he found Oceane winding herself up.

It was a physical moment, Oceane drawing in the breath she would need, her shoulders rising as her chest filled with air, and Goodnight closed his eyes before he could stop himself. Oceane had moved, to the relief of the entire parish, to Baton Rouge, and only during Mardi Gras did they ever come into contact; he was about to remember exactly why everyone had been thrilled when she left.

"Oh, Mama," the third sister wailed at an impressive level, promptly bursting into tears, "Mama, she's ruined us, absolutely ruined us! We'll never be able to face anyone ever again! Even if we moved away, the people there would find out! Mama, what are we going to do? Oh, Augusta, you're going to have to go away, but even then, everyone will know. You've ruined all of us here! Poor Valentine will never get married once word gets out about you two!"

Then it clicked with Goodnight what Oceane was saying and what Salome had implied, why Valentine seemed ready to launch herself across the table at him and wring his neck. Even Augusta's mammy and Sam were thrown for a loop, standing in the corner of the dining room slack-jawed and ashen. Beside him, Augusta could only shake her head, looking as though she wanted to cry along with Oceane for once in her life, and as much as it pained him to speak about his father's condition, he would be damned if he let Oceane be such a bully. Not caring about displaying his affection at the dinner table, Goodnight covered her hand with his.

"Listen, you've gotten the wrong idea. This has nothing to do with what you're thinking. When Gus—Augusta found out the extent of my father's health, she offered to move up the wedding so that he could be there." Beneath his hand, Augusta wiggled her fingers until they were interlocked with his and squeezed. "My father…he is very ill, and to be perfectly honest, we don't expect him to be long for this world. But Augusta realizes how much it would mean for all my family to be there. Now—and Mr. Evercreech, pardon me if this isn't my place—but I don't take kindly to such accusations to myself or Augusta."

For a long while, no one spoke, be it out of shock or shame, until finally Valentine, uncharacteristically soft, asked, "You would do that, Augusta?"

"It's about all of us," Augusta whispered, gaze still downcast, and Goodnight squeezed her hand once again, wishing he could do so much more than that. He wanted desperately to gather her in his arms, to pet her hair and sing until the vivacity he so loved returned to those eyes. But he was stuck at the Evercreeches' dinner table, watching his mother and sister dab at their eyes and his darling Augusta fret over her God-awful sisters.

For the rest of dinner, Goodnight kept their fingers entwined, and Augusta didn't pick up her spoon again, and when there was no other talk about the date change, Goodnight assumed it was settled

* * *

"Oceane's world balanced on a very fine needlepoint of an axis, and when it tipped over just a hair, she was determined it was going to end. Anastasie always wanted things her way, but Oceane…"

"Was crazy," Billy finishes, and Goodnight practically roars with laughter.

"No, Billy, she was a pain in the ass." He takes a long swig of the whiskey, grinning around the lip of the bottle. "They used to chalk it up to her being frail of nerves, or dramatic, or just particular, but honestly, she was just a pain in the ass. Lord Almighty, I swear she was the single loudest person I have ever met in my life. And Augusta, she wasn't loud at all, chatty, but never loud. She had a voice like—like...listening to her was like laying next to a brook while it babbled in its serene way, so soft and smooth, so that you wanted to close your eyes and listen forever. Whereas listening to Oceane was like having a screech owl right outside your window while you were trying to sleep. It's no wonder after all those years of being in the same house that Augusta hated her. Or at least, as much as you can hate your siblings.

"I'll tell you what though," Goodnight says, wagging a finger. "As bothersome as the Evercreech sisters were, it sure was great when Salome and Oceane got together. Sal absolutely despised Oceane, and if Sal didn't like you, she did not hide it one bit. They would get into the best spats, left the rest of us chuckling for hours."

And then Goodnight quiets, and he's thankful that Billy lets him reminisce. "I always found it ironic that the most unbearable one made it out."

* * *

As usual, Mammy knocked on Augusta's door to help her undress that evening after the guests left. Augusta didn't even bother to answer Mammy's knock, but remained sitting at her vanity, though she was surprised to find Mammy balancing a tray in one hand when she let herself in.

"Mr. Goodnight told me to make sure you got some food in you before you went to sleep," Mammy said, placing the tray on the vanity in front of her.

"Goodnight," Augusta mumbled, almost dazedly, raising her chin from her palm. "We had dinner, Mammy."

"Well him and me both noticed you didn't eat, and I made that étouffée specially for you." Without waiting for Augusta to stand, Mammy set about unbuttoning Augusta's bodice. Augusta stared at the steaming bowl in front of her and briefly recalled Goodnight whispering something into Mammy's ear as the woman had cleared away their meal.

Despite the terrible evening, Augusta managed a grin at her étouffée . "He's sweet, Mammy."

Mammy hummed noncommittally, though Augusta could see that her dark eyes were sparkling; somewhere along the way, Goodnight had earned Mammy's approval, and that thought weaseled its way into Augusta's mind and took the place of what had happened at dinner. Mammy showed no signs of elaborating, just slipped off Augusta's bodice and went to unlacing her corset.

"He's so sweet. He's always doing things like this," Augusta continued, twirling her spoon around the bowl with a single finger, and then she breathed a sigh of relief when her corset was peeled away. Since the night of the Castex ball, when she had come home bandaged up, Mammy had been much more forgiving when lacing her corset, but she still made sure Augusta looked her best at important events.

"That man is in over his head," Mammy muttered, and Augusta frowned through the mirror at her, not understanding what Mammy meant. "He went through that ordeal tonight, and all he can do is ask me to bring you something to eat. Bless his heart, he is in over his head. He's still bent on marrying you after getting a taste of Miss Oceane as a sister."

"Don't say a word about her, Mammy," Augusta snapped, unexpectedly harsh as her eyes smarted. "I can't believe what she did tonight. And in front of everyone, no less." And then her lip was quivering, and she was trying desperately not to cry because she was the good sister and never cried. But _damn_ Oceane. Goodnight would never do anything dishonorable, not even when they were unsupervised by the willow, which she realized they should not have done; and moreover, there was no way she could be expecting when they weren't even married, that only happened inside a marriage.

"Oh, baby," Mammy soothed, shaking out Augusta's hair from where it had been pinned up. "There's no need to cry about it. Everything is all straightened out now."

It did not feel like it was straightened out, but Augusta knew it was. It had straightened out when Goodnight had pulled her aside before they all went into the parlor after dinner, when he'd put an arm around her waist and his other hand on her cheek, asking how she was doing, his head bent close to hers, his sharp eyes soft when he searched her face. She may have still been angry, but Goodnight had taken away the majority of it when he'd brought his lips away from her forehead.

"But Mammy, it was so embarrassing. Sometimes I just hate Oceane, she's always doing things like this. And Sal—Sal was no better, putting the idea in her head because you know Oceane could never have thought of it on her own. I don't even know how I stayed in there after that, or how I could even look at him."

Mammy wiped a thumb under Augusta's eyes, which had yet to spill their tears. "Child, you faced him because that man would do anything in the world for you, and he was just as angry with Miss Oceane as you are. Now one day, when you've got a baby in your arms, you'll look back at this and laugh."

"Well I am not laughing now."

This made Mammy laugh though, and the older woman patted Augusta's knee as she moved away. "You eat up and get some rest. I need to get started on your trousseau tomorrow, and we have our work cut out for us. Can't have Miss Oceane looking better than you."

* * *

As Augusta was clipping on a pair of diamond ear bobs, an engagement gift from his parents, Goodnight let out a low whistle behind her. "Augusta Evercreech, as I live and breathe. You are simply gorgeous."

With something between a frown and a grin, Augusta whipped around on her stool at the vanity in one of the Robicheaux guest rooms. "You weren't supposed to see yet!"

"That's not what you say. This is where you say, 'Goody, you have the most exquisite taste I have ever known.'" By now she really was grinning in a way that said she had a trick up her sleeve.

"But I believe it was Hattie who picked this out."

Goodnight's face blanked. The twins had been a tabooed subject for the past week, and the only time Augusta had tiptoed around them had been when she'd asked his permission to tell Mathilde what had happened. "We are not to speak of her, or any of the Verrets for that matter."

"Don't be sore—"

"It was the most beautiful, moving soliloquy you would have ever heard. I was robbed, Augusta, duly robbed," he insisted, thumping his chest as it filled with mild resentment. He'd never been one to hold grudges, but even after a week, he was still considering uninviting the Verrets—but he did have a best man pact with Ames.

She finished putting in her ear bobs and crossed the room to where he stood in the doorway, wanting to cross the threshold but knowing that he still didn't have that right. "And what was this beautiful, moving soliloquy about?"

"Mostly about how you are the air I breathe—"

"So nothing I didn't already know?" When Augusta tried to get away, Goodnight caught her by the hand and pulled her back to him.

This was what he wanted, to be able to banter with her during everyday tasks, to draw her to him when he wanted. He wanted to keep the same look in her eyes there forever. Tracing his thumb over her cheek, he bent his head until he felt her lips, whispering into her mouth, "It was about how I will listen to you tell every story you can imagine so long as mine ends with you."

After too short a time, she pushed him away. "Engaged or not, we still shouldn't do this up here. What happens if someone saw us?"

"Doesn't matter much at this point," Goodnight shrugged, watching her retreat to the vanity, admiring the way she moved, her quick, light steps scuttling over the floor quietly. "Let's get married tonight. We already have all the guests, the food, and you have a new dress."

"No," she answered simply, "weddings take place in the morning."

"Well, how about we have the reception now, and by the time it's over, it'll be morning. Our bags can be packed by then, so we'll have the wedding and leave right after."

"It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

"You've got me there." Goodnight had known she'd never grant him that wish, but he'd tried anyway. And truth be told, he was excited to see what the wedding had in store. "Are you ready to go down? My mother wants you to help her receive guests. If I'm speaking plainly, I think she just wants to say you're her future daughter."

A bottle of perfume poised at her neck, Augusta scowled at him through the mirror. "This is not what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to make an entrance, Goody. I wanted to see your face when I came down the stairs in your dress."

"Well I was supposed to have an elaborate proposal, and that didn't happen either." When Augusta rolled her eyes, Goodnight gave her his infamous lopsided smile. "Tell you what. How about I go downstairs and pretend like I haven't seen you, and when you come down, I'll make a face like you've never seen."

"I'd rather not take my chances on that." Pinching her cheeks for color with an air of finality, she rose from her seat and placed her hand on the arm he offered her.

* * *

With none of the grace with which they'd been raised, the twins barreled into Goodnight and Augusta, weaseling their way between them, and a moment later Ames trotted up, his cravat askew, one hand clamped around a whiskey glass like it was his lifeline. "Goody, Goody, Goody," Mathilde prattled so quickly that it all ran together, tugging on his sleeve. Even in her muted, matronly dress, she was still as bubbly and excitable as ever.

"We just saw something terrific," Hattie added, trying to catch her breath as she brushed golden hair from her face, which had fallen in her dash.

"You two are the biggest gossips I have ever known," he chided them without vigor, and Augusta shook her head in agreement. They may have been the biggest gossips, but they were entertaining nonetheless.

"Hush up, you have to hear this. It's about _your_ sister," Mathilde insisted, and her blue eyes flashed predatorily, a cat knowing she had her mouse where she wanted. She giggled and clapped. "Looks like you want to know now. Well. You'll never guess who has been vying for the beautiful Miss Valentine's attention."

Dread settling in his chest, Goodnight scanned the third-floor ballroom, but it seemed the entirety of New Orleans had been invited, effectively obscuring his view of much of the room. Clever enough that she'd never display too much of it, Valentine could easily twist half the men in the room around her little finger without them having a clue. "She's not in trouble, is she?"

"Valentine?" Ames barked in mirth, causing his wife to turn her attention to him. She jerkily straightened his cravat. "Are you kidding? Sacha's in more trouble than she is."

"Sacha _Castex_ ," Augusta asked, glancing up to Goodnight. She raised her eyebrows. "That's not bad. He's a proper gentleman."

"You have to watch Valentine, though," he reminded her. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a deep breath in preparation to go after his sister, knowing his mother had enough on her mind to properly chaperone Valentine. "Let's go—"

"No, no," Mathilde shouted, "I'll keep an eye on her! You two just enjoy your evening."

Before either Goodnight or Augusta could protest, Mathilde had shot away and was sliding through the guests. Ames glanced between his mostly-empty glass and the disappearing trail of his wife's skirt and then looked to Goodnight. "How much longer 'til it's Wednesday?"

"Three more hours," Goodnight answered, checking his watch.

Ames tipped the last of his whiskey into his mouth. "I'm going to need something more."

"I've got a bottle of strong brandy in the top drawer of the library desk."

"You're a good man," Ames said, clapping Goodnight on the back as he set off for the library. Goodnight watched him go before he offered his arm to Augusta. He was grateful for Mathilde, though God knew she wouldn't miss anything, but it would put his mind to ease to check on Valentine himself.

* * *

"It was a beautiful night, Billy. Fat Tuesday was always the biggest party of the year, and Augusta...was just like a fairy, floating around the house, leaving everyone in high spirits. She'd be right next to me one moment, and the next she'd be flitting to this group and that group before she came back to me, bubbly and…goddamn, she was just so _happy_. She was always the happiest person, just made you glad to be alive when you were with her, but that night was something else. And when she smiled, I smiled, Valentine smiled, everyone smiled, even Salome smiled that night—once, but it counted."

He and Augusta had led the Grand March and opened the ball with the first dance. When they weren't dancing and he'd wanted her to go with him somewhere else, he'd been able to take her by the hand, justified in doing so despite the accusing looks from other guests. No one besides their family, Ames, and the Verret twins had known they were engaged, though there was an increasing murmur throughout the night about their display until his father had made a speech just before midnight and the last quadrille, where they were toasted and Augusta had finally been able to show off her ring, which Goodnight had been keeping in his pocket until they were announced.

And then the clock had struck twelve, and it was Wednesday, and Mardi Gras was over.

"Metaphors, metaphors, metaphors. God loves them."


	7. Chapter 7

**Fun fact: At Cajun weddings (but I don't know when exactly this started), if the younger sibling gets married before the older one, the older sibling has to dance with a broom at the reception.**

 **Billy: 29 April 1877**

 **Augusta: 27 April-June 1857**

 **Warning: contains a period-typical slur.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Mag7, "A la claire fontaine," or "Lorena."**

* * *

"What a funny man he is," Salome thought aloud when Goodnight left. "If he wasn't a Robicheaux, I'd think you were out of your mind."

Goodnight had come calling that evening as he had most days since Fat Tuesday, only to find Salome had also dropped by for a visit, bringing Augusta the blue slippers she had been married in, and perhaps she'd grown so used to sitting with them because she hadn't left. Catching Augusta's eye as her sister sat down, Goodnight had merely shrugged and continued his tangent about his boyhood adventures with Ames.

"Oh, Sal, isn't he just? You should hear him when he gets going about Dickens. He just loves Dickens, could probably talk about him all day."

"Could probably talk about anything all day. You must be out of you mind either way," Salome said, but for a moment, her eyes flashed in something close to amusement. She twisted her shoulders. "But I reckon it's too late now. You're either walking down the aisle or running away from it. Wedding, reception. Honeymoon. _Wedding night_."

As one of Salome's brows quirked, the only part of her face that changed, Augusta rolled her eyes. "I wish people would stop that. You and Mathilde both keep teasing me, but I don't know what you're talking about. What is so special about it?"

"She hasn't told you?" Paling greatly, Salome rounded on Augusta, face aghast. "Oceane, she hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh, God, that bitch. Well, I suppose this is better off coming from me. Who knows what she would say." Salome crossed quickly to the door, peering into the hall to make sure it was clear. She closed the door.

"What is? Salome, whatever are you talking about," Augusta snapped, tired of her sister's theatrics and the silly teasing from both her and Mathilde. Salome was supposed to be the reliable, level sister, not a colder Oceane.

"It's about what will happen Wednesday night. See, Anastasie got quite the _surprise_ the night she got married, so when it was my turn, she…explained. Then I explained to Oceane, and she was supposed to explain to you," Salome said as she took her seat again. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, scowling like it was the cause of all her grievances, before she took a deep breath and, through clenched teeth, set about to explaining. For once she had the decency to blush, and her eyes flickered back and forth between the door and Augusta, worried that someone might overhear them or her sister would flee from the room.

Augusta sat stock-still, gaze dropping to the floor before Salome could get out three sentences, and with every word after that, blood creeped up her neck little by little until it passed to her cheeks and ears. At some point her mouth fell open, and she gripped the neck of her dress, twisting the fabric in her grip. No matter how much she didn't want to believe Salome, she couldn't help but realize that what she was saying did answer questions. No wonder the women at the end of Common Street wore so little clothing. No wonder her family had suspected she was expecting; she'd always assumed babies sort of magically happened once a man and woman got married and shared a bed, not that anything happened _while_ they shared a bed.

When Salome finished, Augusta jumped to her feet, gasping, "Sal, I can't—I can't do that!"

"Stop it!" Salome too was on her feet in an instant, inches away from Augusta before she could react. She placed a hand on Augusta's cheek, tender in a loose sense of the word. "Augusta, listen. It's really…it's not that bad. If you just relax a little, it's almost—well it _is_ —nice."

"But Salome," Augusta argued, quieting down at her sister's scalding, pointed look, "how can I do that? Even you haven't seen me like that."

"And thank heavens for that, I have no desire to. But all you have to do is lay there usually, especially tomorrow. Besides, knowing your husband, he won't shut up long enough to actually do anything," Salome conceded. Augusta knew she was trying to cheer her up, but Salome's words came off as harsh nonetheless; and if it didn't happen tomorrow, then it would just be postponed, and the thought of constantly waiting for it was even more terrifying. Her sister shifted feet. "You're taking this better than Oceane. She burst into tears the moment I told her he'd see her without her crinolines."

"I feel like I'm about to," Augusta admitted, swallowing the dread in her tone.

"Don't, or else I might hate you, and I can't afford not to like anyone in the family."

Taking Augusta's silence to mean their conversation was over, Salome gathered her bonnet from the side table and set about to fixing it on her beautiful head in her slow, self-assured movements. A tide of panic swelled in Augusta's chest; how could Salome just leave her here with such terrible news? She whined, "You're leaving?"

"Yes. I've brought you your shoes, I've done my sisterly duty, and I've stayed ten times longer than I ever planned. I'm surprised Dorian hasn't come after me." She pulled on her gloves and, seeing Augusta's face, rolled her eyes. "Stop it. There's no reason to be so worked up, and you're not supposed to be silly."

"No reason, _indeed_ ," Augusta huffed, finally releasing her grip on her dress, and frowned at her sister as she followed her to the door to see her out. She was supposed to be excited, and now she would do nothing but fret over the course of the next day; perhaps he wouldn't love her without her hoops and crinolines and corset, perhaps it would hurt and she'd never be able to look at him again.

Salome turned in the doorway just before she left, mouth opening, eyes hinting that she might spout off a rare moment of kindness, but then she sobered up. All she said was, "Don't be a child, Augusta."

She closed the door behind herself, and Augusta stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. Part of her wanted to call for Mammy and lay her head in her lap, but she'd intended to end the evening by speaking with her father. How she'd ever do that now, she had no idea; she felt dirty, like she needed a bath, and she had an overwhelming fear that Mr. Evercreech would know what Salome had told her. But her chances to speak with him were growing ever slimmer, and she'd put it off long enough.

Eyes closed, Augusta breathed in to steady herself and headed down the hall for the library, where her father would undoubtedly be doing some sort of business even if it was late. The door was open, and she could see him sitting in the plush arm chair with a pile of papers on his lap, his monocle over his left eye, likely doing little good in the dim light from the lamp at his side. Strict but not unreasonable, Solomon Evercreech was a tall, slight man, gingery hair balding a tad, a thick, curved mustache quivering over his lip when he spoke; he had given Salome her cold gaze, though his eyes did not usually do him justice.

"Daddy," she called softly, lingering in the hall. He did not glance up immediately. "Daddy, may I speak with you?"

She waited a moment while he shuffled papers. "Yes, come in, child."

Augusta crossed to him as quietly as she could and settled herself on the floor at his feet, hoping she looked more guileless than she felt. "Now, Daddy, I know this isn't my place, and you've already done so much for me, and I know I can't thank you enough, but I haven't asked for much before either. I just…I have one last request before Wednesday."

"What is it, then?" He listened quietly while Augusta spoke, and when his brow knitted together, she thought she'd be rebuked. But sighing, he said after she'd finished, "My dear, I've already signed Saltmore Hall to him, and the property will be his when I am gone. Must you take more from me?"

She hadn't known Goodnight had gotten her home when he'd asked to marry her, and while it was a little unsettling, she doubted that had been his sole purpose in proposing. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I understand if you say no. It's just—it would make me feel so much better to have familiar faces with me."

Mr. Evercreech raised a hand and smoothed Augusta's hair, smiling ever so slightly. "Oh, my sweet girl…I know I have been called many things, but let it not be said that I don't love my daughters. If this is what your heart desires, then let me fulfill this one last request."

He leaned over to kiss the top of her head. "I'll draw up the papers tonight, and he can sign them in the morning."

"Thank you, Daddy," Augusta cried, popping up suddenly to throw her arms around his neck. Solomon Evercreech had given Salome more than just her namesake, but below his cool exterior was something warm that Salome did not seem to have.

"Go now," he said with a low chuckle, "or else you'll not have any sleep. I am known for my beautiful daughters, and I can't have you looking tired."

* * *

"I remember her eyes most of all. That, and I dropped the ring two goddamned times."

* * *

"I'm so excited," Ames said, straightening his vest in the mirror. "Mattie says she's beautiful. I bet you'll love her."

Glancing up from where he'd been trying to fasten his suspenders, Goodnight caught his friend's eye in the reflection. "Isn't that the whole reason we're doing this?"

"Well, yes, but normal people don't get married because they love each other, and I'm just trying to have one last bachelor conversation," Ames quipped back at him, and from his expression, Goodnight would have thought Ames, starry-eyed and rosy, was more excited than he was. "So can you let me savor this day? I thought for sure you'd only ever be Uncle Goody to all my children, but now I get to be Uncle Ames to all my godchildren."

"You were going to be Uncle Ames with or without me. Remember Mattie?" Goodnight reminded him, and Ames rolled his eyes.

"Lord, I'll be so thankful when those girls get married, but this isn't about them, Goody. It's about you, and your wedding…and you taking your sweet time getting ready. Jesus, can you hurry? Augusta is as sweet as she can be, but she's still an Evercreech, and I'd rather not test her patience on her wedding day. Look, even I'm dressed." Ames crossed to where Goodnight was just buttoning his vest and grabbed hold of the lilac cravat from Goodnight's bed. "Watch this, I learned a new trick just for you."

"One of these days, you'll learn something useful," Goodnight teased as Ames fumbled with his cravat but managed to tie it elegantly enough.

"But then what good will you be?" Ames took a step back to admire his work, hands on Goodnight's shoulders. He paused for a moment like that, suddenly almost pensive as he regarded Goodnight. When he spoke, his voice, soft and airy, had lost most of its teasing gleam. "Look at you. My big brother ready to get married. We finally grew up."

"Big brother," Goodnight snorted, clapping him on the back and moving for his coat; he had enough to worry about besides Ames getting sentimental. "You're seven months older than me."

And like that, Ames was back to his twinkling self. He plopped his boutonnière into his button hole and then did the same for Goodnight before snatching both their hats. "Oh, Goody, be honest here. You're the big brother in this relationship. If I hadn't been so set on getting you with Augusta, I would have made you dance with the broom at my wedding."

Ames ushered Goodnight out of his bedroom and down the stairs of the Robicheaux mansion in New Orleans, chiding him for asking if he had the ring, though he patted his pockets "to double-check" when he thought Goodnight wasn't looking. They hurried into the waiting carriage, and with a lurch, jostling Goodnight's stomach even more, it began its journey across the city

* * *

Excitable and eager to do his best man duties, Ames straightened up the moment the canon started and rushed to fix anything on Goodnight that could have been askew. Goodnight swatted him away, mostly out fear that he would throw up on him if Ames stood there any longer. At any moment, Augusta would come down the aisle, and it would be the end of an era, the age he'd been referring to in his mind as Before-Augusta.

The congregation rose. Haggard and sickly, Maxence Robicheaux struggled to his feet but with his characteristic smile lighting up his sunken face, beyond elated that he could celebrate the day, and once again, Goodnight said silent thanks that Augusta had offered to do this. Little Minerva Verret pranced inside one of the left-side pews, and two rows in front of her, Oceane fanned herself fervently. Goodnight mentally dared her to faint—he had yet to fully forgive her for her episode at their engagement dinner—and Salome, ignoring Anastasie's death-grip on her arm, scowled around Dorian so fiercely at her redheaded sister like she was daring her as well; maybe Augusta had been right that they could count on Salome. In the very back corner, tears streamed down Mammy's face as she beamed at Goodnight, and Sam gave him a short jerk of the head when he caught his eye, though Goodnight couldn't have very well left them out, not when Augusta adored them so.

On the arm of Solomon Evercreech and looking tiny next to her tall, lanky father, Augusta appeared in the door at the far end of the St. Louis Cathedral, clad in a dress with a voluminous white skirt and an ornate lace veil trailing feet behind her; with the distance between them, he couldn't make out any of her features besides her inky hair framing her pale, round face beneath it.

 _Come on, darlin', you don't have dawdle,_ he thought, curbing the urge to shift from foot to foot while his heart hammered in his ears, but at the same time, he wanted her to enjoy her spotlight.

But then Augusta had reached the end of the aisle, and Mr. Evercreech kissed her cheek through her veil.

"Wipe your chin, Goody," Ames might have said when Mr. Evercreech passed her to Goodnight, but he'd never know. Gaze cast down, Augusta glanced up hesitantly through her lashes at him, grinning bashfully. His breath caught in his chest at the sight of those big green eyes, bright against all her white and her black hair, those big green eyes which washed away any lingering doubt about himself that he might have had. Maybe he wouldn't make a good husband, but goddamn it, he was going to try. He squeezed her hand, a gesture which she returned, grin turning into a smile, and they knelt before the priest.

Goodnight had been to enough weddings to know what happened without being aware of the proceedings. This person read from that, they crossed themselves here, stand then sit over and over, more readings. He moved in a daze, only aware that Augusta was next to him, buzzing excitedly, and his fingers were in hers, and for once in his life, Ames had been right about something.

"I wish he'd get to the vows, Goody, I'm about to faint," Augusta whispered at one when the priest addressed the congregation.

"Do what," Goodnight muttered, only vaguely registering her voice, though he had a moment of panic when he processed what she'd said. "You are pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"We'll find out," she said without a care in the world, sounding overjoyed to be about to faint; at least she was closer to the ground this time.

Finally the priest had them stand, and taking a deep breath, Goodnight repeated after the priest, "I, Goodnight Robicheaux, take you, Augusta Evercreech, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life."

In her soft voice, giddy and shaking, Augusta repeated, "I, Augusta Evercreech, take you, Goodnight Robicheaux, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life."

They were married. It didn't matter what happened now, they were Goodnight and Augusta Robicheaux. They were married. The priest blessed them, but Goodnight met Augusta's eye, unable to keep his face stoic, and in her face of glass, he saw that she was thinking the same thing.

Goodnight had just enough sense to realize the priest was blessing the ring. After it had been sprinkled, he turned to Ames for it, and the other man held it out.

And it clattered to the floor.

" _Shit_ ," Ames cried loudly, and a few of the men in attendance snickered as both he and Goodnight dove for it. Ames scrambled on hands and knees for the ring as it slipped away, rolling across the floor. He launched himself after it and flattened it to the ground with his palm. Fair hair flopping into his eyes, he popped up with it tightly between his thumb and forefinger, embarrassment nowhere near his features. From somewhere on Goodnight's side, Micah Magee whooped.

Goodnight took the ring from him, laughing nervously—his whole body ached from where he'd tensed so suddenly—and turned back to Augusta, whose jaw trembled, eyes twinkling, but she remained quiet. He responded with a lopsided grin and forgot the incident when she looked at him from beneath her lashes. He licked his lips.

"Gus—Augusta, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he said, attempting to slip it onto her finger.

Only to have it slip _past_ her finger.

With another wild dive, Goodnight nearly headbutted Augusta in the stomach as he lunged for the ring, watching from the corner of his eye Ames springing into action, but the ring, spinning twice, landed at their feet. Goodnight picked it up, cursing at it in his mind, unlike Ames who had done it aloud.

"Well," Augusta whispered, beaming up at him, "you should have shaken out all the bad luck by now."

"I thought the phrase was 'third time's the charm,'" he teased, feigning like he would drop it again, but he was grateful Augusta would laugh it off.

Still under her veil, Augusta scrunched up her nose, failing miserably at looking angry as she always did, and tried to growl, "Goodnight Robicheaux, you put that ring on my finger."

* * *

The moment the carriage doors closed, Goodnight tossed back her veil, freeing her lovely round face from any obstruction no matter how thing it may have been, and he pulled her flush against him.

"Mrs. Robicheaux, you are simply divine. _Vous êtes la plus belle créature que j'ai jamais vue_." He tried to press his lips to hers, but Augusta's were pulled back widely. "Would you stop smiling so that I can kiss you?"

Augusta merely responded with her bright laugh, tipping her head back in that familiar, intoxicating way. "Oh, Goody, _il y a longtemps que je t'aime_."

" _Jamais je ne t'oublierai,"_ he murmured back, stroking down her hairline, desperate to touch her but knowing Mammy would skin him alive if he messed up her hair. They were tucked away in a carriage together, _alone_ , and he could touch her if he wanted because she was his wife. His sweet, beautiful little wife. Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux.

* * *

Buttoning his coat, Ames stood with an expression of giddy smugness. He tapped his fork on the side of his glass.

"If I may have your attention, please." When the room quieted, he continued, "Now, I know I should be toasting to the newlyweds, but I think it's fitting that we all raise our glasses to me. Because I take full credit for this wedding. To Ames, Eros in disguise!"

Three seats down, Mathilde pointedly cleared her throat, scowling at Ames, who relented, "Ok, Mattie gets some credit for always corralling Augusta for me. Now, to Ames, Eros in disguise!"

His smugness increasing when the crowd hesitantly raised their glasses, he grinned cheekily at Goodnight. "Are you proud of that one, Goody? I used Eros. But I _digress_." His whole being gave an excited tremble.

"Anyway. As I take full credit for this wedding, Goody, Aggie, please don't make me regret it. When Augusta told us that story about the boo-hag and the toad at her debut, and she used the word 'querulous,' I just knew that this was the girl my best friend would marry. And wasn't I right? Now, we all know that Goody can talk for hours about anything, and days if he knows what he's talking about the subject, but Augusta—not only does she have patience enough to listen to him, but she can give him a run for his money. Thankfully they both listened to good ol' Ames, and here they are just glowing before you today as husband and wife."

"All joshing aside, it really is such an honor to stand beside my best friend, my brother, on this day. I teased him earlier today that he was the older brother in our relationship because he's always the one looking after me, but now, he finally gets someone to look after him. Augusta, Aggie, my new sister, I now put him in your capable hands—Lord knows you have much more patience with his jabbering than I do.

"Now, let us toast to the groom and bride, Mister and Missus Goodnight Robicheaux."

As the guests raised their glasses, Ames clapped Goodnight on the back and took his seat, swiping at his nose, though he'd never admit to the crack in his voice. Maybe Ames was silly, and maybe he lived in his own carefree world, but it could not be said that he didn't come through when needed. Good ol' Ames, indeed.

"I suppose it's my turn," Goodnight said, buttoning his own coat as he stood. "Before I really get going, I'd like to thank my parents for this day, especially my mother for never following through with those threats to wring my neck. Of course, thank you, Ames, for the _little_ push in the right direction, and Mathilde for aiding in his matchmaking. And thank you Solomon and Collette Evercreech, for a daughter more beautiful than I ever imagined.

"Now, when I came home, I wasn't in a hurry to get married, but Ames was in a hurry to get me married. He dragged me to a party, where the story began—quite literally, I might add. Augusta sat down and told us all a story that night, and that was the moment I was hooked. Since then, I've been listening to her tell all kind of stories, so finally, thank you to Anastasie, Salome, and Oceane, but mostly you, Oceane; you've given her so many wonderful stories to tell. But it is truly my honor that my story will end with her.

"When I proposed—or tried to, at least—I had planned a beautiful speech, which was tragically cut short—thank you, Mathilde, Hattie—but I suppose this should do."

"Oh no," Augusta groaned, covering her cheeks with her hands, neck already reddening. She cringed in her seat.

"Have more faith in me, Gus," Goodnight chuckled.

"Often, we do not marry for love, but for convenience or duty, hoping love comes somewhere along the way. But, Augusta, my convenience is this: that I will not ride to Saltmore Hall whenever I wish to see your beautiful face, but that I may wake up to it every morning. My duty is this: that I shall keep upon your lips the smile that I have come to need so desperately, that has become more essential to me than water. Often, we do not marry for love, but Augusta, my darlin', you have no idea how much I love you. If I have seen you in a thousand different lights, you have been beautiful in all of them. You are the sun upon my face and the song upon my lips, and I will love you with every breath in my body, for you are my life itself.

"So, here is to my morning rise and working day; my Sunday afternoons and evening rest; my song and my speech; my home and heartbeat. Here is to... _ma vie_."

" _Sa vie_."

* * *

"Do you know what tomorrow is, Billy?"

Billy squints while he tries to figure out the days. Out on their own, with days between towns, it's hard to keep track of the date. "April...it's the twenty-ninth of April."

"That's right. Tomorrow would be our twentieth anniversary." By this point, Goodnight has tears falling silently from his eyes. "We set the date for September sixteenth originally, but we ended up moving it to April."

By now, the bottle of whiskey that Goodnight had been nursing is only a third of the way full, but Goodnight is as sober as he was to begin with. He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Twenty years ago, I was lying wide awake in bed, listening to my poor father's cough, and it didn't seem quite as harsh because he was going to get to see the wedding. And I kept thinking to myself, 'Goodnight, you are one goddamn lucky sonovabitch. This time tomorrow night, you are going to be making love to your wife on your way to Paris.'"

* * *

It hadn't been until they'd gone back to their car after dinner that Augusta had remembered what was supposed to happen.

Now, poised at the foot of the bed, she stood in front of Goodnight, her chest rising and falling more quickly than she cared to admit, trying to focus on anything besides what she was supposed to do. To her relief, he seemed almost as self-conscious about the situation as she did, judging from how he kept licking his lips, quick like he was reminding himself to be calm while he tried to find the right words, how his eyes flickered over her face, to her hands, down her body, somewhere over her shoulder, while she stared at the top button on his vest, noting the detailing in the brass, the scripty _R_ s in the center, now her last name too. But she couldn't focus on the buttons the whole night, and she needed him to make a move.

As if reading her mind, Goodnight tangled his fingers in hers. "Your hands are cold."

"I'm nervous," she breathed, not entirely sure what it had to do with her hands being cold but surprised she could even manage that much. She just thanked her lucky stars he was doing something.

"Don't be," Goodnight whispered back, tilting her chin up to him with a single firm but gentle finger. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her to him while using his other hand to cradle the back of her neck.

Augusta tried to switch off her mind, tried to lose herself in the touch of her husband, but when he reached for the buttons on her own dress, she snapped back to reality. Since she'd been old enough to bathe herself, she hadn't been seen in anything less than her chemise and drawers, not even by her mother and sisters, and never in such a condition by a gentleman. Her mind whirred, and modesty and nerves replaced where giddiness and comfort should have been. She didn't catch herself before she'd shifted.

The movement made him draw back from her. "Do you trust me?"

 _He likes that loaded question_ , Augusta thought, pulling away from him to fully see his face, all the warmth she'd ever known him to have emanating from his sharp blue eyes. Goodnight cupped her cheek in a way she knew was to try to calm her down, tracing his thumb under her eye. As the train hit a bump, he fell a step closer to her so that their hips brushed.

From what Salome had said, she'd expected him to have tossed her onto the bed and done whatever horrid things he needed to by this point; she had been told that he would change after they got married, since he wasn't having to woo her anymore, but here he was being utterly Goodnight, tender, perceptive. And then a hesitant smile flickered over Augusta's lips, and before he caught them in his own, she whispered, "Yes."

He deepened the kiss, sliding her bottom lip between his, and pulled her closer. This was not quite what she expected, the gentleness, the slowness, though she didn't know how she could have expected anything else from him. She had expected the embarrassment and sickness that grew with each layer that was shed, but she had not expected the tugging in her stomach to accompany it.

One by one, he dropped her layers, watching as she slowly became smaller and smaller until she was clad only in her stockings and corset, a slender little woman who could not decide to faint or kiss him.

"How—what is this contraption," Goodnight asked, something akin to dread crossing over his eyes as he fingered the laces on her back, and Augusta momentarily forgot her unease with him unable to comprehend how her corset worked. Perhaps if he couldn't figure out how to get her out of it or got too fed up with the laces, he would give up; but then again, that would only postpone this whole ordeal.

"There are buttons." Slowly she fumbled to release each one, biting her lip and glancing up and down at him, unable to meet his eye for any length of time. As she struggled with the last one, hands trembling too badly, he covered them in his own and stepped forward, edging her closer to the bed. Her corset fell away. _This is normal,_ she told herself. _Salome said it would be nice._

Taking a seat at the foot, Augusta glanced away while she peeled off her stockings, and when she raised her head, she found that Goodnight had taken the opportunity to undo his own buttons on his pants without her watching him. She started before she could stop herself, heart pounding, feeling the heat reach past her neck to her ears.

"Gus," Goodnight began, sitting down next to her in only his long johns.

Eyes squeezed shut, Augusta cut him off by shaking her head, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine."

And like that, before she fully realized what had happened, the last of their layers fell away and he laid her back on the bed.

" _Mon cœur t'appartient, ma vie_ ," Goodnight breathed into her neck, and she tried to focus not on the weight of him over her but on the sound of his voice, low and familiar and comforting. He traced a finger up the inside of her arm and then peppered kisses in a hot trail over it. " _Mon coeur, mon monde, mon tout. Ma vie."_

* * *

"I took in the sight of her laying on the bed on our wedding night, and I knew I would never see that again. That would be the only time I ever looked at my wife like that, and I wanted to make it last. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing. Ames had given me some surreptitious, muddled advice, and Sal had told her what happened, but that doesn't prepare you at all when you're looking at a woman for the first time, unclothed and scared and waiting on you to decide how it's going to go. All the advice in the world can't prepare you for that whatsoever.

"I didn't know what to do, but I knew it was the physical act of letting a woman know you loved her. So I tried that. For the first time in my life, I kept my words to myself and let my actions tell her I loved her."

Sometimes, on the good nights, he finds himself bound for Savannah, listening to Augusta drown out the rumblings of the train, her sighs, her moans, even her laughter. She murmurs his name next to his ear in her soft voice. He sees her writhing under his touch, back arching and toes curling, sometimes pushing him away when she can't stand the pleasure, sometimes holding him close when she can't get enough of it. On the good nights they stay like this, engrossed and entangled in each other.

But on the bad nights, he's trapped somewhere nearby in a cloud of smoke, listening to Augusta scream, muffling the sounds of indistinguishable voices, harsh and cruel. They cackle and jeer while she screams, begging for them to stop whatever it is that she knows they're doing but that he can't see. The only time he had heard his wife beg was in April of 1861, but here it is all she can do, besides wail and sob. No matter how hard he tries—and sometimes he doesn't at this point—he can't get to her, can't find her in all the smoke that clouds his vision and fills his lungs until all he can do is retch. On the bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, stomach churning and tears burning his eyes, Billy looking over him with masked concern.

"I thought we had time. I thought there would be time for me to ravage her later, for those quick moments of sudden passion."

* * *

After three nights of watching her, Goodnight grew fed up of trying to figure out how she did it. Augusta sat down at the mirror on the fourth night to release her hair from her pins only to have Goodnight do it for her, picking out each pin that was so skillfully hidden in her mane, and when he thought he had every one out, he shook her hair just like she did.

"Now what?"

Augusta cocked an eyebrow and pulled out one last pin. "Three sections." He meticulously sectioned off her hair, moving each curl when he thought the sections were uneven. "Now put the left one in the middle, then the right one in the middle, and repeat."

He did as she said, weaving each of his strands in and out slowly, though it was a constant battle as his fingers kept getting tangled, and he couldn't keep from somehow tying knots at the ends. When he finished, he stood back to examine his disappointing work. Catching her gaze in the mirror and finding her eyes glittering, the ghost of a smirk on her lips, he mumbled, "This is not as easy as you make it look."

Augusta felt what he had done. "You need to keep it tighter. My hair won't fall out if you pull just a little."

He did not want to pull her lovely, enticing curls, but he refused to let her mane get the best of him. "I will not be beaten by this," Goodnight said, unwinding his work.

He tried a second time, trying to keep her hair tight like she'd suggested, but he couldn't keep the tangles out no matter how hard he tried. "Do you want to know a secret? I absolutely adore your hair."

With more seriousness than he'd ever seen, Augusta looked at him through the mirror. "Oceane told me I had nigger hair one time."

Goodnight pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, shaky breath. "Darlin', you have no idea how glad I am that she's in Baton Rouge."

* * *

"Was it good?"

"Was what good, the lovemaking or the wedding?"

"Both."

Accomplishing what was undoubtedly his mission, Billy's question makes Goodnight grin wolfishly. "I'd say the wedding was the second-best day of my life. It was the wedding of the year, even if it had been thrown together, and Gus was absolutely gorgeous, just like she deserved. Most people come back from their honeymoon tired of their spouse, but I couldn't get enough of her, and for once in her life, Gus was the center of attention and loved every minute of it. And well...infer what you will, but we were expecting by the time we got back home."

Slowly his smile fades, and he closes his eyes. He knows in the pit of his stomach that it's past midnight by now. He knows that if he'd made even one different choice that he could be lying in bed with his wife—even if they weren't in Louisiana—instead of sharing a hotel room with a Korean assassin hundreds of miles away in California.

He tips the last swig of whiskey from the bottle into his mouth, and Billy takes the cue to mean their talk is over, snuffing out his cigarette on the nightstand. Joints creaking, reminding him of just how many years have passed, he replaces their liquor sack with the other packs and turns to find Billy watching him stoically, perhaps trying to figure out if this will be a night where he'll end up joining the older man in bed.

But Goodnight couldn't share a bed with anyone tonight. And it's not as if he'll sleep enough to have a nightmare.

* * *

For two weeks, they were in Paris, spending the days in a whirlwind of museums and strolls along the Seine after a late morning and cancans and freak shows in the evenings before going back to their hotel, making for even later nights. Goodnight danced with her at restaurants, even when she insisted it wasn't proper for married couples to do so, and didn't bat an eye when he opened the wallet at dress shops, even when she told him that he shouldn't be there.

And he loved every minute of it. He loved watching her face light up when he purchased a new dress after she insisted that she didn't need it, telling her that she needed a splendid new wardrobe if she was going to be the new Mrs. Robicheaux. He loved leaving a restaurant only to discover it was well into the night, though they never went to bed at a decent hour, instead choosing to delve into the new pleasures of marital life or to stay up talking the night away.

"I love this city," Augusta said on their last night when she caught him staring at her from the doorway leading to their balcony, in awe that the beautiful woman with the foreign city lights as her backdrop was his wife. "I never thought I would love any city besides New Orleans, but Paris has grown on me. Is this how it was with Charleston?"

The city had grown on him too. When he went out alone, he found himself seeing traces of her; there she was on the corner outside the hotel, stooped down to pet the stray mutt that hung around the block, and there she was sharing a box of petit fours with a group of children outside the bakery that he'd discovered. Traces of his wife peppered the city, and he wanted to linger in those traces forever.

"We can stay if you'd like," he said, pushing himself from the doorway and towards her. She was wearing one of her new dresses and the look she had taken to giving him: a faint, closed-mouth grin and her eyes half-closed, as if he had just woken her from a wonderful dream. When he wrapped his arms around her waist, she leaned against his chest, skimming her hand over his cheek.

"You want to get home," she replied after a moment of searching his face, and his silence was all the answer she needed. "It's fine, sweetheart. I understand."

"I've enjoyed this, I really have, but I'm…" When he let his mind wander the slightest bit away from her, he remembered what he'd left back home, and it scared him. With a sinking feeling, Goodnight was certain that they'd return to Louisiana to find his father gone, and he wouldn't have said goodbye or been there for his family during the funeral.

"I understand," she repeated. Perking up, she asked, "Why ever were you lurking in the doorway?"

"I was admiring the beauty," he told her, and she let out a little huff in amused embarrassment, still not used to his compliments.

Goodnight bent his face to meet hers and let the city watch them kiss. Somehow Augusta sensed that he wanted more, and she tugged him by the vest back inside their room. It was only fitting that they celebrate their last night in Paris.

* * *

He never answered her question.

In the stillness of the nights, when he's left with nothing but his thoughts and memories, he can recall all the things he has and hasn't done. He recalls the man at the shop's face every time he came in for a new frame, how masterfully he could plait her hair by the time they returned to New Orleans, and the way her eyes closed whenever he did it. He can recall the scent of her perfume and the scent of cannons faster than he can say his name.

On restless nights like these, he imagines he's atoning for his sins. Whenever he pulls the trigger, the bullet doesn't wound, but rather it is leaving the unfortunate soul—usually a color guard or captain—and whizzing past the trees back into the rifle. He isn't walking away from Oceane, but rather he's gathering her to him. He's on the Parisian balcony answering every question Augusta ever had.

 _Yes,_ ma vie, _this is what it was like with Charleston. You fall in love with a new city and all its little idiosyncrasies, but no matter how much you love it, it'll never be home._

Billy flips over in the opposite bed, and Goodnight can't help a faint smile; it would make more sense for Goodnight to be the restless sleeper, but Billy always wiggles, tossing and turning.

Ma vie, _nothing will ever compare to home._

The lyrics from his second-favorite song bloom on his lips, but he keeps quiet. Restless and twitchy, Billy makes for a light sleeper. He turns over again, and Goodnight wonders how easy it would be to get a cigarette.

* * *

As they were loading the carriage to go home, an idea struck Goodnight. He waited until they had everything tied down until he told Sam where to take them.

"Why are we stopping here?" Augusta swept back the curtain just enough to peek out the window, and not for the first time was Goodnight amused. Valentine couldn't go anywhere without her face against the glass; it would take some getting used to Augusta being content to sit quietly under his arm.

"Gus, I want you to go in there and pick out anything."

"Goody, _you_ already bought enough in Paris—" But Goodnight was already alighting from the carriage and holding out his hand to help her down.

"We're not leaving until you find something," he told her on their way through the door. He'd come to learn that Augusta, wildly intelligent as she was, would not be so brazen as to ever speak against her husband.

Inside, the man behind the counter, small and mousy, glanced over the tops of the eyeglasses low on his nose when the bell rang, pausing briefly with his task. With a flash of delight that the owner was not on the floor, Goodnight kept his hat low on his head until he had his back turned to the man, looking inside the watch cases on the other side of the room, while Augusta browsed through the brooches and bracelets.

"I'll be with you shortly," the man said after a moment's consideration, more than a little unenthused, and went back to what appeared to be setting a stone.

Augusta roved over the cases slowly, taking her time in looking, and Goodnight had to pretend he was very interest in a new chain. Eventually she stopped and peered up at the man, hands clasped in front of her, waiting patiently for him to offer assistance, but he continued to labor with the jewel in his tweezers. After a few moments, she caught Goodnight's eye, and he raised his fist to his throat. Augusta took the hint to clear her throat, very quietly, just loud enough to get the worker's attention.

"I will be with you in a moment," the mousy man said again, harder this time, not even glancing up from his task.

Eyes widening at his brusqueness, Augusta looked to Goodnight for help.

While he'd wanted to make a point by coming into the shop, Goodnight worked to curb his fury at the slight to his wife. In his coldest but most sincere tone he could manage, he said, "Pardon me, but I believe my wife has been patiently waiting for your assistance."

From a back room, there came the sound of what seemed like scattering papers, and a small, portly man popped into the doorway, his halo of grey hair sticking up in mad tufts.

"Mist—oh gracious. Mr. Robicheaux, what a surprise! I had no idea you'd come in." He waddled over to greet them, shaking Goodnight's hand firmly and bowing as low as his stomach would let him as he kissed Augusta's fingertips, though she blushed madly. When he rose, he dabbed at his forehead, stammering nervously, "Please, forgive my associate, he didn't recognize you. And this—this must be the new Mrs. Robicheaux, yes?"

"It is. Augusta, this is Mr. Adler, owner of the shop. Adler, this is my wife, Augusta."

"How do you do, Mrs. Robicheaux? Please, forgive my associate. Had he known who you were, he never would have made you wait." Again, Adler dabbed at his forehead, which was breaking out in red splotches.

"Oh…it was no problem, Mr. Adler." If Augusta had been taken aback by the associate's behavior, it was nothing in comparison to Adler's. He shot a frightening scowl towards his associate, who ducked into the back office in the blink of an eye. Adler tucked his handkerchief away as he composed himself.

"May I see the ring, Mrs. Robicheaux?" He held out his hand and brought a monocle from his breast pocket to his eye. "Ah, yes. I remember this ring. Beautiful design, one of my favorites, I must say. Your husband here had it specially made, did you know that? He came in two days after Christmas and asked how much it would take to get a ring designed. And how lovely it looks on your hand indeed.

"I can see no problem with it, which means you must be in for something else. How may I help you? You have lovely green eyes, my lady, so might I suggest this ivory brooch?"

As Adler was opening the case, Goodnight tapped on the glass. "I think this one is more appropriate."

"Oh, Goody, no…" Augusta tried to say as Adler pulled a peridot choker from the case, sparkling madly and elaborately made. Adler passed it to Goodnight, who paid no attention to her protests, settling it about her neck and only mildly fumbling with the clasp. "No, I don't need this."

"Nonsense," Goodnight argued, holding up a mirror in front of her. "Of course you do when matches your eyes perfectly."

"Goody–"

"Only the best for a Robicheaux," Adler agreed.

* * *

Sometime in the night, Billy managed to slip out of the room without Goodnight, who was wide awake the entire time, noticing. He packs their stuff alone, but in a way, he's grateful that Billy decided to make himself scarce; his heart is too heavy already to deal with Billy's pity, which he never shows, but Goodnight knows it's there. At this point, he's learned to listen to the air around Billy rather than read his face.

He readies their horses, still with no sign of his partner, and takes two biscuits for the both of them when he pays for their room. The next town is less than a day's ride east, and if they get started now, they can make it by sundown if they don't dawdle. Just as he bends down to tighten the saddle on his horse, he sees a pair of familiar black boots striding into the stable.

"Put those away," Billy tells him when Goodnight holds out Billy's biscuits.

"Breakfast," Goodnight retorts in confusion, hoisting himself into the saddle.

"Snack later. Get off the horse."

Without even waiting on Goodnight to dismount, Billy jerks his head and stalks back out of the stable. Goodnight follows like always, not letting Billy get too far, until they get to the restaurant. He glances at Billy from the corner of his eye, but Billy slips past the doors.

"What can I get you," the bartender asks with a pointed look at Goodnight.

"Four pancakes, two coffees, bacon," Billy answers. An eyebrow cocked, signaling a fight could be nearing, the waiter snarls down his nose at Billy before turning his attention back to Goodnight. He only cocks his own eyebrow with a look that says, _You heard my friend._

When the bartender leaves, muttering under his breath about a white man bowing down to a Chinaman, Goodnight leans over the table. "What are we ordering breakfast for?"

"You said this was Augusta's favorite. Today is important."

After he's processed that, Goodnight can only nod that, yes, Augusta loved pancakes, and be thankful for Billy.

Later they ride out of town, stomachs full, and Goodnight gets only the slightest bit of comfort from leaving. For those few hours, he'd brought his old life into reality, and now he's leaving a little part of it in this place. That same little part of him makes him want to stay here and revel in that old life; he hadn't been allowed to properly grieve when he left it behind, and today, more than ever, he wants to wallow in that old glory.

Eventually, when his chest has gotten too tight, he clears his throat, and Billy looks over at him. "Do you...I thought I might...do you mind?"

Billy's eyes flash down to the revolver on Goodnight's hip then back up to his face, and Goodnight knows exactly what he meant. He'd been given that same look on more than one occasion, all on days worse than this, and if he hadn't touched it then, he won't touch it now. "I won't use it," he says to answer Billy's unspoken question.

Sometimes Goodnight wonders just how much Billy trusts him, or if he's simply letting Goodnight do whatever and hoping for the best. But no matter, he gives that slight nod of the head that had taken Goodnight a year to fully recognize, and then says, "I'll meet you outside of the town."

Goodnight turns his horse away and spurs it on, not realizing the wind carries his song back to Billy.

" _Oh, the years creep slowly by, Lorena,_

 _The snow is on the ground again._

 _The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,_

 _The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been._

 _But the heart beats on as warmly now,_

 _As when the summer days were nigh._

 _Oh, the sun can never dip so low_

 _A-down affection's cloudless sky."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Billy: May 1877  
Augusta: May-October 1857**

 **So this is sort of like Part One of Two. The next chapter will be more of a continuation of this one.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Mag7.**

* * *

Billy doesn't let on that he doesn't like it when Goodnight leaves, but he always returns to find the younger man inebriated, or at least on his way. This time is no different, though Billy has made it through considerably less of the bottle than usual; either he hasn't been waiting long, or he hasn't been bothered as much.

Goodnight can't be upset that Billy's never asked about before the war when he's never asked about Billy's history. He knows the gist about Billy—an indentured man wanting freedom—and Billy must assume he knows the gist about Goodnight. It's been an unspoken rule that they don't ask personal questions, and for the most part, Goodnight has obliged, except for the occasions when they've slipped out in his chatter. But Billy's never answered them, sometimes doesn't even look at Goodnight to let him know he's been heard. Those are the times when Goodnight wonders if Billy actually listens, or if his voice is nothing more than the grasshoppers and the sparrows.

He doesn't say a word when he rides up, just waits for Billy to get off the ground and saddle his horse again, before they go into town together. Billy doesn't ask where he's been, and Goodnight doesn't tell him that he spent an hour or so under a tree, talking to the wind.

* * *

For the next few days, Goodnight makes no reference to the story he'd told Billy, and they both go back to playing the roles they've given themselves. Billy makes them decent money with his knife fights, and during the days, Goodnight occupies himself at the saloon. Billy joins him every once in a while for a few rounds of hold 'em, though he doesn't stay very long since he usually loses more money than he wins; he's better at picking up other players' tells than Goodnight, but Billy can't have a decent hand dealt to him to save his life.

They spend two weeks there, longer than either had wanted, but a harsh spring rain set in, and neither had any desire to play in it. So they bide their time, Goodnight making friends in the saloon, in the store, wherever he goes, and Billy keeping his head low in Goodnight's shadow.

They ride quietly for most of the morning, but it is Billy who breaks the silence. "Someone got lost."

He's referring to the large blue farmhouse they pass, too fine for the dusty plains surrounding them, probably belonging to a railroad magnate or successful rancher, but Goodnight agrees that no matter who it belongs to, the house looks out of place.

From somewhere inside him, buried beneath years of pain and resentment, a bit of smugness rears its head. "Billy, I want you to picture this: there's a long drive, and at the end, it circles around a perfectly-trimmed topiary."

"Topiary," Billy mutters under his breath, face contorting while he tries to remember if he knows that word.

"It's a type of...plant sculpture," Goodnight tells him, knowing Billy would understand if he used Billy's language, but those moments never end well with Goodnight's heavy Southern tongue, trained to move prettily in French and Latin. Billy nods, expression relaxing in recognition, and Goodnight continues. "Behind the topiary, three times the size of that one back there, there's a house, square and columned, every part of it white except for the black shutters and iron railings. A granite double staircase curves up to the porch. On the left wing, off the front parlor and grand dining room, was the ballroom with all its carved moldings and velvet curtains and marbled floors, and on the right wing was the conservatory and library. It's a palace in the middle of fields speckled white.

"That was Foxsong."

* * *

After a week of living at Foxsong, Augusta slipped out of the house one evening, papers in hand, and set out for the nearby cabin that had been set aside for Mammy and her family. She'd waited the week instead of going straight to Sam when Goodnight had given her the papers, trying to get her feet under her before she said goodbye. Even now that she knew she could be fine on her own, her heart ached at the thought of what she was doing, putting all remnants of her past life behind her. But this was what he wanted, and he'd been a good friend all those years.

Augusta hadn't even made it around the house when she skidded to a halt, and Sam backpedaled into the house's overhang from where he'd come out the kitchen door. She gasped, "Sam! I was coming to find you."

"What's wrong? You all right?" Concern etched over his face as he studied her quickly, his body immediately tensing, and Augusta rolled her eyes. She wished Sam would just relax sometimes.

"I'm fine. I brought you something," she said, pressing the papers into his hands. When he hesitated, she nodded, smiling while she tried to hide a grimace. "Go on, read them."

Sam did as she said, unfolding the neat, thick papers. His face screwed up as he read the words, and he flipped to the next page, shaking his head, mouth falling open. "Miss Augusta, what…what is this?"

"You can go now, take a horse and ride wherever you want. I knew you wouldn't leave without Mammy or Ruth, so their papers are there too."

Sam shook his head again. "Miss Augusta, I can't do that."

"Yes, you can, Sam. It's all right there, everything you need."

"That's not what I mean—"

"Then what's the problem," she huffed, throwing her hands to her hips. Sam was _supposed_ to just take the papers and go, not put up a fight; it would be easier if he just left. "You can read, you can write, your math is fine. There's nothing stopping you."

"Do you really think Ma is going to leave you? Especially now that you're married and starting your own house?"

Augusta recoiled, opening her mouth to speak but closing it sharply when she couldn't think of what to say. Mammy had to go; Sam had to leave because that's what he wanted most in the world, and if Mammy didn't go, then he wouldn't either. "Well…I don't know, Sam, make her leave."

A grin finally ghosted over Sam's lips. "Miss Augusta, I'd rather wear red and go mess with the bull than try to get between Ma and her baby Gussa."

Lower lip jutting out, Augusta scowled before she could stop herself, not rightly caring that she was pouting like a child when she was supposed to be a grown woman. She knew Sam was right, as always, but that didn't make it any better. This was the whole reason she'd asked her father if they could come with her, and it had all been for nothing. Sam chuckled lowly, a real smile spreading over his face. "Don't give me that look, Miss Augusta."

"This isn't fair. I was trying to do something nice for you."

Sam hesitated before he put a hand on her shoulder, but Augusta didn't flinch. "I know it ain't. But I'm beyond grateful for what you've done, and I won't forget this. You're a good woman, Miss Augusta. Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux," he added with a wink.

Augusta's scowl melted away; she could never stay mad at Sam. "Well…keep the papers, and if you decide to leave suddenly in the middle of the night, then at least say goodbye."

* * *

" _Belle-mère,_ Sacha should be here at any moment. Why don't you sit with them, and I'll have lunch with _Beau-père_ ," Augusta said, attempting to give her voice a tone that left no room for argument as she tidied up the room. At first, it seemed like Goodnight's mother would do just that, but after a moment, she rose and crossed to the door, patting Augusta's shoulder as she went, unfocused gaze set in front of her. Augusta shared a look with Mr. Robicheaux.

"Well, now that we have no supervision, how about we—" Augusta threw back the curtains and then turned to Mr. Robicheaux with a sly grin. "That's better. It's too pretty of a day not to see the sun."

"Tell me what it looks like out there, would you, daughter?"

"What it looks like? Oh, stars. Let's see. It's one of those days that you just know is sweltering hot, but it's nice nonetheless. The sun is bright enough that the grass looks almost yellow, and there are all these wispy clouds hiding the sky. From here there are one...two...three fat ones. There must not be a breeze whatsoever because the swing in the oak isn't moving a bit." Augusta shifted slightly, craning her neck, and then a smile involuntarily crossed her lips. "Oh! And there's Goody in the north field, riding towards us. He looks so proud up there, back as straight as it can be. Bless his heart, he must be hot with all those clothes. I think he's coming to have lunch with us."

"You're perfectly welcome to take your lunch downstairs. You don't have to stay with me."

Augusta turned in confusion to her father-in-law. She may not have had to stay, but there was no place she'd rather be than with him. It was her duty to look after him, considering how his wife was handling the situation and Goodnight loved him so. "But I don't mind staying with you at all."

Though his once-round face was now considerably thinner, and his laughing eyes were sunken back, Mr. Robicheaux's droll mouth turned up in the kind way everyone knew, and he raised his hand from the bed to Augusta. "Come here, daughter."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that. I don't want to upstage Val." Augusta crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed and took his hand.

"Upstage Val. Fiddle-de-dee. You married my son, and you are now my daugh—" A round of deep coughs shook his shoulders, and when Augusta came back with a glass of water, he was bringing a stained handkerchief from his lips. His hands trembled as he took the glass. "Thank you, dear."

"I'm just repaying the favor," she said, and refilled the glass before she sat back down. "Do you remember that? When you had the cookies with me at the church picnic?"

Mr. Robicheaux had a warm, infectious smile. "I remember a very upset little girl being denied a cookie by someone with no authority to do so."

"Someone with no authority? Oh, you must not have met Oceane then. Otherwise, you'd know she has authority over everything."

From downstairs, the piano started up with a skill that could only come from Valentine, which meant she had likely seen Sacha coming up the drive and was now attempting to act indifferently while showcasing her talent. They listened in comfortable silence while Valentine's nimble fingers flew up and down the arpeggios, sweetly and more serene than she would ever be—not that she couldn't pretend. Eventually Augusta said, "You have such musical children, Val with her piano and Goody with his voice."

"And you with yours."

"I carry a tune, but Goody...his is positively beautiful, though he never wants to use it. He's so frustrating—"

"There's about six people I can think of off the top of my head who you could be calling frustrating," Goodnight said, lounged against the doorframe to his father's room, and he grinned when Augusta and his father whipped around in surprise. "I should hope I'm not one of them."

Mr. Robicheaux gave as much of a laugh as he possibly could without triggering a cough. "Well, son, are your ears burning?"

* * *

Augusta had wriggled out of Goodnight's hold and made it through the adjoining boudoir into her room before she was retching over the chamber pot, grappling to hold back her mass of hair. For the past week, she'd woken feeling ill, but this had been the first morning that anything had come of it, and she'd laid in bed so long trying to decide if anything would come of it that she was almost too late.

She almost didn't notice the big hands sweeping back the hair from her face, holding it low on her neck. As sweet as the gesture was, she scolded herself for waking Goodnight. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Well it wasn't one of your more graceful moments," he replied, rubbing her back with his free hand. "Now you go back to bed, and I'll have Mama come check on you when I leave. Can't have you and Daddy sick."

"Goody, I'm not…" she groaned, but she didn't feel like arguing with him, and telling him over the chamber pot while she likely had vomit in her hair was not how she wanted to do it. Instead, Augusta let him help her into her bed. "If we're being honest, I'd really just like breakfast."

"I'll have Mammy bring you something up. Do you need me to get you anything?"

"Just let me lie here a bit," Augusta mumbled, endeared by his concern, but her head was throbbing; for the first time in her life, she wanted him to be quiet. She cracked an eye to find him looking over her with an expression that he might wear if his favorite book had just taken a bath, and she grinned, covering his hand with hers. "I'm fine, sweetheart, I promise. You go get dressed and let me lie here."

"Gus—"

"Goodnight," she insisted gently, knowing it would get his attention, "I'm fine. Go get dressed. I'll be up in a few moments as well."

He blinked when she used his full name but took the hint, kissing her temple before he got up. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Augusta gave him a soft smile as he left through the boudoir; her sweet, caring husband, sharp as a whip but clueless at the moment. She closed her eyes, hoping it would calm down her head, and yielded to the drowsiness.

She was woken next by the sound of her door opening, and when she opened her eyes, her mother-in-law, the beautiful, fair-haired Francine Robicheaux stood over her, something between a smile and a smirk on her lips, her sharp eyes scanning over Augusta, not missing a thing. She pressed her hand to Augusta's forehead after a moment, like it was a second thought, and then put her hands on her hips. In a tone that implied it was more of a formality, she asked, "You are not sick, are you?"

"I'm certain that's not what this is," Augusta relented with a deep breath. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

Her mother-in-law sat down next to her, asking, "How long? Do you look different?"

"I feel like I do, but he hasn't said anything." Augusta glanced down at herself. She was certain she'd gained weight, and she hadn't been doing anything differently since the wedding except _that_ ; when she really thought about how much she had been doing—what with trying to keep track of not only Goodnight, who was her true duty, but his parents and sister as well—she would have thought she'd be losing weight, but it seemed like every day that she had a harder time tightening her corset.

Seeming to be fully aware of her surroundings, Mrs. Robicheaux waved Augusta over to the dressing table and shook out Augusta's hair. For the first time since they'd come home, Augusta watched as her mother-in-law's face broke into a wide smile, and she bit down on her lip. "This will be good for him."

When she had Augusta's hair halfway up, she said, "I just wish whatever you have could meet his granddaddy. Goody never met my daddy, he died in Texas, you know."

Augusta knew very well that Goodnight's grandfather had fought at Texas, and while she didn't particularly care about hearing about a man he'd never met, she couldn't ignore the look on Mrs. Robicheaux's face. If this was what it took to get Mrs. Robicheaux to like her, then she would listen all day about Goodnight's grandfather. "No, I didn't know that. How very honorable of him."

* * *

"That your wife?"

Surrounded by the work song from the fields, Goodnight followed the overseer's gaze towards the house to find a small, lone figure making its way towards them, leaned to one side to balance out the basket in hand. "Looks like it." He tossed his reins to the other man and hopped off his horse.

"What are you doing out here?"

Grinning breathlessly, obviously proud of her trek with the basket, Augusta shifted her basket to the other hand and leaned the opposite way. "I thought I'd bring you lunch."

With a surge of adoration and pride, Goodnight pressed a kiss to her temple, taking the basket from her and nearly dropping it, surprised at the weight. He carried it in one hand while he put the other on her back. "Well, while you're here, this is John March, the overseer. March, this is my wife, Augusta."

"How do you do, Mrs. Robicheaux?" A slight, flighty man with shifty eyes and a mop of dark hair in his face, he tipped his head towards Augusta, rocking in the saddle as his horse pranced.

"Very well, thank you."

Augusta's smile seemed to have no effect on Marsh, who turned without another word to her. "Mr. Robicheaux, I'll send your horse up to the house if you'd like me to."

Offended on Augusta's behalf, Goodnight frowned but nodded once, saying he would be back after lunch. It was then, turning back to Augusta to find her gazing behind him warily, that Goodnight noticed the fields had gone quiet, and he spun on his heel to find all of the workers staring their way, craning their heads this way and that. Faintly whispers of "the new missus" floated through the air.

Goodnight replaced his hand on her back, urging his wife forward, and the overseer shouted, "Back to work!"

When they had made it an adequate enough distance, Goodnight dropped his hand to take her own, swinging it between them merrily, thankful she had provided him an escape. He may have been able to talk to anyone and anything, but the overseer, laconic and a bit churlish, did not make for even a good listening companion, and after his slight to Augusta, Goodnight didn't think he'd sign another contract for the man after the year was up. "What did you think of the overseer, Gus?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "He wasn't what I would call friendly, but...I don't know him. I wasn't offended, if that's what you're getting at."

Coming upon a log, Goodnight changed the hold of his hand to help her balance atop it, and he hoped she wouldn't turn to see him grimacing in anxiety that she would slip. But she didn't slip, just danced along in the air beside him, making him more and more nervous as she pranced until her feet were level with his head. "I'll be able to see up your skirts, Mrs. Robicheaux, if you go any higher."

"Heavens," Augusta deadpanned in perfect imitation of her sister, cocked eyebrow and everything. Glancing at him playfully from the corner of her eye, she grinned and pivoted towards him, extending her other hand so that he could help her down, which he did, holding her close to him as he spun her in a circle, letting her skirts billow around them. When she was on the ground once more, Goodnight pressed his face close to hers while she murmured, "How could I ever let you do that?"

"You're in a mood today."

"Promise you won't be mad at me?" Goodnight shook his head. "Well, it's highly likely I've gotten out of chaperoning your sister this afternoon for the second time, and while she may not be happy about it, I think I deserve congratulations."

"Oh, I see how it is. You don't care about your poor old husband at all, not—"

"Stop it, you. You know I love you." Before she could let her fingers slip from his hands, Goodnight was following along behind her again. "This was the third time this month that she's told me Sacha was calling and she hoped I'd sit with them."

"Third time in a month? Someone is dedicated, all right, near forty miles to the Castex place. But don't let her bully you. She's terrible about that."

"I'm not." Uncharacteristically harsh, a scowl graced her lips for a moment until she realized what she was doing, and her face softened. More hushed, she said, "She's not being a bully. I can handle it."

Knowing she had interpreted his comment to mean his sister would trample over her like Oceane, he dropped her hand and snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "That's not what I meant. You've seen how selfish and manipulative she can be."

"Well I don't think she'll be speaking to me for the rest of the day, but I hope she's learned her lesson. I wouldn't mind chaperoning if she'd ask ahead of time. Besides, it'll do your mama some good to get out of that room."

They'd come home to find Maxence bedridden and his wife in a stupor, never leaving his side physically but never seeming to be with him. She had proven to be of no use in nursing him, neither had Valentine, and the task had fallen to Mammy and Augusta. Goodnight glanced at his wife, waiting to see if she would elaborate but not wanting to push the subject, and maybe Augusta sensed that because she didn't.

They reached the willow, and Goodnight spread the blanket that Augusta had tucked in the top of her basket, sitting down and holding his arms open for her. She settled herself sideways in his lap.

"We haven't been here in so long, not since November," Augusta said, leaning her head against his chest. She stayed like that for a while, twining their fingers together lazily, only rolling her eyes when he began pulling pins from her hair.

Satisfied by her hair now falling down her back, Goodnight wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her closer, burying his face in her inky ringlets. He knew he should be working, and Augusta knew it too and likely had just as much as he did on her plate, but there was nothing more he'd rather do than sit under the willow with his wife. Something about her quiet presence was calming; if he'd known his father was alive, Goodnight would have insisted they stay in Paris for a while longer, just so they didn't have to come back to the chaos.

"Tell me a secret," she asked eventually, his fingers playing in her hair.

He had wanted to do this for nearly two years. Now here they were, under his willow tree, lounging away the afternoon, completely wrapped up in each other. "What do you want to know?"

"Where did you get your name?"

Goodnight hummed in response and then said, "Well, darlin', that _is_ a secret."

"That's why I asked. We're married and I don't even know."

"I'll tell you what," he said, reaching around to kiss her cheek, "when it comes time for us to name something, I'll let you know."

Twisting in his grip so that she faced him, Augusta's face was suddenly much more solemn. She licked her lips. "Well, Goody, maybe…maybe that time is a bit closer than you think."

"Do what now," Goodnight asked, one side of his mouth twitching upwards.

"I'm not sick. That is—I don't have an illness, exactly." She shrugged. "I guess it happened in Paris."

Goodnight pulled back from her, frowning in confusion. _Happened in Paris_? What could have happened in Paris that required them to name something? The only thing that had happened in Paris was... _oh_. "Are you—you mean to say you're—you're having—"

"Well it's not just mine," she teased, mirth shining in her eyes, but she grinned like she was waiting for an explosion.

A baby, Augusta was going to have a baby. She would have all those tiny little fingers and toes and Augusta's big eyes and cheeks, and they would name her Goodnight Augusta Robicheaux. Augusta would dress her in all the best, frilly little dresses, and he would be like Mr. Evercreech, famous for his beautiful daughter. He'd buy her all kinds of books and send her to a finishing school, and maybe she would love him, but he'd love her, that was for sure. How could he not love having little Augustas running around Foxsong? "We're parents?"

"Eventually—"

Goodnight all but tackled Augusta in a kiss. He would be scolded later for missing the blanket and getting grass all in her hair, but he would deal with that as it came.

* * *

The great, rasping cough which had plagued the house for weeks crescendoed, making the two women cringe. Mrs. Robicheaux covered her mouth with her handkerchief and blinked back tears, turning her head so that she looked out the window and away from her husband. When her father-in-law showed no signs of stopping, Augusta rose to offer him a glass of water, but he waved her away feebly.

"Aug—Augus—" he gasped. Augusta ran a cold cloth over his forehead, but he took her hands in his.

"Yes, _Beau-père_ ," she answered, squeezing his hands gently, hoping her eyes portrayed the confident comfort she was aiming for. Stomach turning—and not from the baby—she swallowed hard, hoping it would rid her of her unease; she did not know where Goodnight was, and she had the worst feeling that he needed to be there.

Mr. Robicheaux heaved a shuddering breath. "Goodnight. Fetch—please. And Valentine."

"Of course," she said, masking her fear with warmth. Once she was out of sight, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run, making a dash for the kitchens. She had to get to Sam, he always knew what to do. When he saw her coming, he immediately dropped a handful of feathers from where he'd been plucking a chicken and ran to meet her. "Sam—Sam ride for Valentine. She's at the Verrets' with Minnie. Tell her it's about her father, and it's urgent."

"Is he…"

"Not yet, but he's asking for his children. Sam, what do I do?"

"Miss Augusta, you go find your husband and get him up to the house. Leave the rest to me. I'll fetch Miss Valentine and Mr. Rubadeau, they'll know what to do." Sam was already backing away, headed for the stables, and with that, Augusta hoisted her skirts into her arms again, not caring if Sam saw her pantaloons.

"Upper west field," Sam called after her.

Between her clothing and the southern heat, the journey between the kitchens and the upper west field seemed like miles, but within minutes, she saw Goodnight sitting atop his horse. "Goody!"

Turning on his horse, Goodnight searched frantically for the source of her voice. When he saw her, he wasted no time in spurring his horse into action, and Augusta only imagined the panic going through his mind. Without waiting for the horse to halt, he jumped off as soon as he was in front of her. "Gus, are you all ri—"

"Fi–fine," she panted, strangely aware of how the field had stilled by her presence. "It's your—father, Goody. He's asking for—you."

"Daddy?" Goodnight asked, voice hollow, face suddenly blanching, and Augusta nodded, biting her lip to keep from tearing up. She couldn't make it worse for him—she _wouldn't_ make it worse. Goodnight moved to help her on the horse, but she shook her head.

"No no, I can't ride now. Just go, I'll be back soon."

"I need you, Augusta," Goodnight pleaded, sounding for all the world like a scared child. Augusta stepped into his arms as he reached for her and kissed him squarely on the mouth, not caring if the entirety of Foxsong saw them. If this was what he needed, then this was what she would do. She held his face, rubbing her thumbs across his cheekbones. "Gus…"

She kissed him once more and removed her hands, nudging him towards his horse. "I'll be there right after you. Go on, sweetheart."

With one final beseeching look, which gave Augusta the urge to pull him from the saddle and gather him in her arms, Goodnight kicked his horse forward, and Augusta watched him ride across the field.

* * *

Goodnight had waited for Augusta on the back porch, trying to convince himself to go in without her but needing her by his side. As much as he loved his father, he didn't want to watch him die, and if that meant not being there, part of him was tempted to do just that. He'd known she would want him to be inside already, but when she'd made it back, she hadn't said a word but took his hand.

Cheeks flushed and out of breath, Valentine had arrived within an hour and, brushing past the house slaves gathered at the foot of the stairs, hurried to her father's bedside to find her family waiting somberly, and she and her brother had exchanged doleful glances.

Leaned against the wall, Goodnight now stood by the window and watched his family. His mother merely sat by his father on the bed and held his hand, listening to whatever wisdom he was bestowing at his end, Valentine kneeled next to her mother on the floor, while Augusta moved back and forth about the room. She would bring him a glass of water when he coughed, sponge off his forehead, then return to Goodnight's side; and despite the situation, he felt a little surge of love and pride for his wife, followed by a wave of guilt at himself for not doing more.

At one point, Mr. Robicheaux took her hand when she offered him water. "We are thankful he found you, daughter."

Eyes filling with tears, Augusta brought his hand to her lips. "I am thankful you consider me such."

"I hope…I hope he will treat you well."

All Augusta could do was shake her head, and Mr. Robicheaux held out a hand towards Goodnight, who looked to Augusta as if asking permission. Beckoning him over, Augusta rose to give him a place to sit.

He knew it was selfish, but he didn't want to sit down, he didn't want to watch his father die, but somehow he found his feet moving to the bed. Augusta put her hands on his shoulders once he'd sat down, her silent way of telling him she loved him, and Goodnight shot a grateful glance to his wife who always seemed to know just what he needed.

"I'm proud of you, son."

"Thank you, Daddy. You taught me well." He couldn't sit here and look at his father, eyes sunken into his head, struggling to breath. Goodnight's own breath hitched, and Augusta gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze to bring him back to where he was.

"Remember what I have taught you. And remember that she will be more precious than jewels." Mr. Robicheaux closed his eyes, and his next shuddering breath took too long to draw. "We are all we have in this life."

Valentine let loose a sob and buried her face in the bedside, and Mrs. Robicheaux covered her mouth with her handkerchief. As a few tears fell from Goodnight's eyes before he could help himself, he felt Augusta's hands slip from his shoulders, and he turned to find her drawing the curtains.

"Saints of God, come to his aid. Come to meet him, angels of the Lord. Receive his soul and present him to God, the most high," she said, voice determined but quivering as she stopped the clock then draped the mirror.

"May Christ who called you take you to himself; may angels lead you to Abraham's side. Give him eternal rest, o Lord, and may your light shine on him forever." Turning down the two pictures on the dresser, Augusta finally came back to Goodnight's side and replaced her hand on his shoulders. "Receive his soul and present him to God, the most high."

All four Robicheauxes crossed themselves, and when Goodnight buried his face in his hands, Augusta took them in her own to lead him into the hall.

* * *

"There was one wonderful result of the funeral, Billy."

Inevitably, Goodnight has started yapping again, now that Billy was ready to fall asleep, which must mean that Goodnight can't and he doesn't want to be alone. After so many years, that's the only reason Billy can hazard as to why the older man gets so chatty so late at night. Billy doesn't push his hat from his eyes, but to let him know he's listening, mumbles, "What's that, Goody?"

"At the docks in Paris, I let Augusta out of my sight for just a moment while I checked on our arrangements, and I came back to find her with a man selling birds. One of the cages had a pair inside, one blue and one green, and she decided that those birds were like us. There she went, turning her eyes up to me, and there I went, pulling out the money. That was the worst decision that I made the entire year. Jesus Christ, Billy, I hated those birds. Damn things never shut up. I called them Anastasie and Oceane behind Augusta's back.

"During the wake, we had to keep their cage covered so they wouldn't squawk."

* * *

On the first night of the wake, Goodnight had decided he'd laid in bed long enough. His mind was moving too fast; it was moving too fast, and he couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. With Augusta asleep, he had no one to help him sort through his thoughts, and as much as he wanted to wake her, he couldn't find it in him, knowing she hadn't slept in over a day, spending much of the night talking with Ames and Mathilde about funeral arrangements. Untangling himself from his wife with a kiss to her temple, he put all his clothes back on except for his boots, which he carried until he'd closed the bedroom door.

It had been decided that his sister would sit with their father tonight, to give Goodnight time with his wife since Augusta had spent the past day in New Orleans purchasing mourning clothes. She had left a detailed list of things that needed to be done with Ames and Mathilde, who had stayed overnight at Foxsong, and for the most part, the family had been taken care of.

"You can go," he told Valentine when he came into the parlor. "I'll stay tonight."

"What about Augusta?" Valentine asked, though she was already halfway to the door.

"She's asleep," he said, and sprawled out on the vacant sofa.

In a way, the parlor was unrecognizable. All of their photographs had been turned over, and the large mirror over the fireplace and the family portrait were draped with black crepe. The grandfather clock in the corner did not produce its usual steady tick, and the blanket over the bird cage kept the infernal creatures quiet. The parlor was unusually cold and hushed, but Goodnight supposed it was fitting.

They'd known this day was coming, but that didn't stop him from feeling any less about it.

Maxence had been a giant in the community, as was necessary with the Robicheaux name. His enemies were none, but his friends were bountiful; never had he seen his father meet a stranger, nor had he ever let someone who needed help go. He'd funded most of the building of the church and helped the DuBoises back to their feet when their lower field caught fire. He'd been godfather to the entire Jarreau family. He'd been known all around for his soft heart and wise advice. And to his family, he'd been the complete backbone of the Robicheaux clan, a loving husband, and a mentor to his children.

How could he ever live up to his father?

He could have sat there an hour or just a few minutes when the light of a candle appeared in the hall, then came the soft padding of footsteps, and Augusta leaned on the doorframe. "Would you prefer me to go back upstairs?"

"That's your decision," he answered quietly, and Augusta's lips twitched.

"You know I'll always choose you," she said and padded over to him, settling herself under his arm, head on his chest, though he could see the dark circles forming under her eyes, which had been bloodshot when they went to bed. Goodnight pressed his face into her shoulder, letting her hair tickle his nose, and breathed in her scent for clarity. They'd only spent the day apart, but after they day he'd had, it had felt like a week. "You were not sleeping well?"

"My mind is going too fast. Did I wake you?"

"No, there was an empty spot where you're supposed to be." Brushing her thumb over her lips, Augusta hummed softly when Goodnight kissed her fingers. "Tell me what's on your mind."

"Of course there's you. I can't get you off it," he teased, wanting partially to lighten the mood and mostly to let her sleep, but Augusta just kept looking at him with those big, lovely doe eyes. "My daddy was such an influence. He's left these massive footprints, Gus, and I don't know how I can ever fill them. And we're having a baby, and...what do I know about daughters?"

"Daughters? No, Goody, this is a boy," Augusta stated plainly, turning her face up to him just enough that he could see those big green eyes, not a trace of joking in them.

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is. I know this is a boy, he is inside me, after all. And before you start in again, we are not naming him Goodnight Augustus. End of that story. And we're not naming him Horatio or Iago or Banquo either."

Goodnight sniffed, "Well, you're not leaving us many options, are you?"

But they shared a smile, small as it may have been, and Goodnight re-situated himself so that she would be more comfortable. Again he pressed his face into her hair. In less than six months, he'd gotten engaged, been married, discovered he would be a father, and lost his own, and Augusta had been behind him through it all. She had taken everything in stride and done what was needed to get by.

"My daddy used to give the best advice except…he'd tell me that a woman is like a gun. If you take care of her, she's going to shine." When he let out a shaky breath, Augusta must have thought he was crying and turned him to look at her, but she found him with his lopsided smile. "I thought it was good advice at first, but now…I'm not so sure I like having you compared to a gun."

"I know where you get your metaphors now."

* * *

Goodnight knew he was getting underfoot, but Augusta was too patient to tell him otherwise. He'd followed her around the entire day, watched while she helped Mammy hem Valentine's dress, and before they'd even made it to lunch, he'd lost count of how many times she had bumped into him. Ames and Mathilde were doing their best to make arrangements, but he figured Augusta needed to keep herself busy, no matter how much Mathilde fussed at her that _she was handling things_.

Now he leaned against the doorframe while Augusta, with only a small space with which to work, hunkered over the table in the back parlor, carefully tying a black ribbon to a yew wreath. Around her wreath, Goodnight's mother and sister had left flowers scattered across the table from where they'd been attempting to make a wreath of their own for the vault before Valentine had fled in tears from the room.

Hands on her back, Augusta raised up, her face contorting in discomfort, though she tried to hide it when she noticed he was watching. "Can I do anything," Goodnight asked quietly, wishing he had some way to keep himself occupied, wishing he could be like Augusta and make himself productive. At least then he would stay out of Augusta's way.

"Take this and hang it on the door, please. I'll clean this up, and we can get ready for dinner," she said, passing him the wreath, and brushed off her hands.

"You'll do no such thing," Mathilde exclaimed, sweeping into the room. Even with the bleak mood of the house, and despite keeping herself in check, she still carried a vibrant energy with her. Like Augusta, Mathilde's hair fell haphazardly from her bun. She flapped her hands at both Augusta and Goodnight, shooing them from the room. "Augusta Robicheaux, you keep working, and there'll be no reason for me to be here. Goody, you can put that on the door, but you, ma'am, you've done enough for the day. Go lay down before I skin you."

Goodnight grinned at how Mathilde Verret Rubadeau had suddenly been reduced to a woman with responsibility, and judging from Augusta's hum, she found that part of their situation amusing as well.

* * *

It was only fitting that the service be held in the church Maxence Robicheaux had built. The church he'd refused to let be named after him.

In rows upon dense rows, carriages filled the lawn in front of the church, some of them belonging to families as far as Baton Rouge and Lafayette, and the priest opened the doors and windows to accommodate the crowd, which spilled outside even after they had packed together tightly. The family only realized this when they alighted from their own carriage since Valentine had faced forward for the first time in her life as they'd ridden to the church, not even bothering to peek out of the curtain.

Goodnight didn't sing; he couldn't bring himself to do so despite how much his father had loved his voice. He allowed himself a moment to marvel at the number of people who had shown up, and he shook each person's hand who came up to him. Otherwise he kept one arm around Augusta and let her do most of the talking, all the singing, and hoped the day would go by quickly.

* * *

"Whoo, that was the last of them. I'll tell you what, that Mrs. Jarreau, she can talk and talk and talk, and you'd never imagine when Olive and Opal are so dumb in both senses of the word. Liked to never have gotten her in the carriage. But you know what? She did complement our painting in the front hall there," Augusta chattered from against the porch railing, finally ridding Foxsong of mourners.

"That's because it's a wonderful painting." He thought his wife made quite the picture herself, dressed head to toe in black against the bright expanse of the property. She eased her hat off her head, pulling a hairpin with it, and he smiled, close-lipped and gentle with fondness as she closed her eyes in frustration when a chunk of her hair fell too. Picking up the pin with only minor difficulty from her stomach, which she had not grown used to, she held it out to him.

"Can you figure out where it goes?"

Goodnight jerked his head for her to sit next to him on the swing. After a moment's study, he tried to imitate how Mammy had done the rest of her hair, and when he'd taken his hands away, he grimaced. "I'm afraid I'll need more practice before you let me out into respectable society."

"Oh, I don't care what it looks like. Anything to get it off my neck."

"I managed that much," he said, and she turned in her seat so that she faced him. In the brief moment that they shared a look, Goodnight knew she was reading him fully, understanding everything that was going on inside his mind that he wasn't saying, and he could see her eyes asking him, _What do you need from me?_

He didn't realize when he was taking hold of her hands anymore; it had become another everyday movement when he was with her, like taking his hat off when he went inside or patting his horse's neck when he dismounted. "Sit with me here, darlin'?"

Augusta settled into the crook of his arm with her back against his chest, and he draped his arm over her shoulders, letting their fingers mingle together. He gently rocked them back and forth with one foot, and pressed his face into her neck, saying, "It's been a long day."

"A bad day?"

He inhaled deeply. They'd placed his father in the western corner of their property, where all the other past masters and mistresses of Foxsong rested in crypts, and the whole ordeal had made everything so final. For months, they'd been playing pretend that Goodnight was in charge and Augusta was the lady of the house, but now…He was never going to be able to ask for his father's advice or hear his sparkling laughter. The torch had been passed to him, and now it was Goodnight's turn to carry the Robicheaux legacy.

Palm flat against her head, Goodnight smoothed down her flyaway curls and basked in her form in his arms. She hadn't moved from his side all day, unless it had been to take care of something that had set his mother or sister to tears. "For what it's been, it hasn't been that bad."

"I love you, Goody," she sighed, nestling herself further in his grip.

" _Jamais je ne t'oublierai,"_ he murmured in response.

It was nearing dusk when Ames and Mathilde appeared. Judging from how heavy her head had become on his chest, Augusta had long since fallen asleep, but she roused herself when Goodnight shifted.

"We were about to head home. Is there anything we can get you," Ames asked, a picture of earnestness, leaning against the side of the house. In all their years of friendship, Goodnight never would have thought Ames would be one to seriously put together a funeral, but sure enough, he had pulled through. Good ol' Ames, indeed.

"No, we'll be fine. Thank you, Ames. You too, Mattie."

Hand extended, Goodnight rose from the swing, but Ames pulled him into a hug.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nothing against Mormons here; I just finished Hell on Wheels (watch it, I dare you) and got a little Bohannon-y with Goodnight. I mean, they were both Southern railroad men. Of sorts.**

 **Also, period-typical racial slur ahead.**

 **The songs are "A la claire fontaine" and "Lavender Blue" respectively.**

 **Billy: Mid-October 1877**  
 **Augusta: January-August 1858.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Mag7. I do love it and would love to talk about it.**

* * *

Their travels bring them to a town called Genoa in Nevada by the middle of October, their first time back in the state in nearly three years. It's getting a little late in the year, Billy thinks, for them not to keep moving south. Billy isn't one for the snow, though Goodnight can't seem to get enough of it. If there was ever a moment where Goodnight was quiet during the warm months, those moments were few and far between, but they are nothing in comparison to the winter.

It's endearing enough.

"Look at us, we're like a flock of goddamned birds, Billy, trying to find some toasty piece of land before our feathers freeze, and now we're stuck with a bunch of Mormons."

At the moment, Goodnight has nothing decent to say. He's grumbled about Mormons ever since Billy mentioned wintering in Utah, and now that they're in a town that used to be named Mormon Station, he really hasn't stopped. It's something Billy uses for his own personal comedy, knowing that if he mentions anything about Utah or the Mormons, Goodnight will be muttering under his breath for the rest of the day—something from his time with the railroads.

The night is decent enough that they don't have to spend the money on a hotel, even though Goodnight insists on the splurge, arguing with Billy who wants to wait until it's absolutely too cold to sleep outdoors; they compromise and wait until the next day to get a room, setting up camp just outside town. They eat the last of their stockpile around the fire and settle back against their saddles afterward, gazing up at the stars. Orion looms above, the only constellation Goodnight had said Augusta could ever find no matter how many times he pointed them out. Billy doesn't tell him it's the only one he can find too.

"'Fifty-seven was a chaotic year, Billy. I got married, Hattie Verret married some fellow from around Lafayette soon after we came home, Daddy died, and Val decided to let Sacha Castex—you remember him, his family threw the ball where Gus nearly killed herself—come seriously calling. And that next January…turned out I was wrong.

"I had a boy. A girl too, though she came a while later. He came that January after my daddy died. Those nine months, Gus and I used to argue about what name to choose. I wanted Goodnight Augusta, but she was not having that. She'd say, 'We're having a boy,' and I'd tell her that was even better, we'd name him Goodnight Augustus. And then she'd say, 'We'll never be able to keep each other straight.' I'd insist that we'd be fine, and she'd just say, 'No.' And that was the end of that conversation."

Somehow Billy knows that this is a true story, not fabricated at all, and he imagines that his partner would have named his children Goodnight Augustus, Goodnight Augusta, Augustus Goodnight, Augusta Goodnight, and any other combination of their names had his wife let him.

Even though he grins, Billy doesn't know how he feels about Goodnight telling him this and thinks he would prefer to think of him just as an ex-soldier haunted by his kills, not as a man who had a home and family.

* * *

With the latest from Melville going back and forth between her face and lap, Augusta, now quite round, propped herself up in the library's bay window. Goodnight had been attempting to look over the books and accounts, but she had yet to allow him five minutes of silence to do so.

"I thought maybe Mathilde could take Val to the Blanque party with Minnie since your mother and I can't go. It would look terrible for Val not to be there, and you know she won't let one of my sisters chaperone, not that any of them are good. She may as well go alone if Oceane takes her," Augusta jabbered, lowering her book once more.

Goodnight took a deep breath, wishing he could add just one column without being interrupted. If this was anything close to what he was like, he needed to apologize to every person he'd ever met. But no matter how much she chattered, Goodnight couldn't find it in him to be cross, just sympathetic at her ever-growing nerves. Slowly he turned around in his seat. "How're you feeling, Gus?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said quickly, and it was all he could do to keep a straight face. Augusta was not close to being anywhere near _fine,_ having pulled the majority of her hair from her braid in the brief time since he had last turned around, eyes rimmed with dark circles. Goodnight could only assume his own eyes looked similar, having been occasionally awoken by Augusta in the middle of the night since the beginning of December, and every night since they'd arrived back in New Orleans.

He crossed the room to sit by her, tucking away a few of the wildest curls. His poor, fretful wife; she hadn't complained once though. "Why don't we go take a nap?"

"No, you're working, and I'm reading."

At this, Goodnight did let himself laugh, a short bark that dissipated when she frowned. "Gus, we are not doing either of those things. You haven't turned a single page since we sat down, and I haven't balanced a single column, so let's go take a nap. You look like you could use it."

* * *

If Goodnight sat in bed any longer, he was going to need another book.

He wouldn't complain too much, though, not when Augusta had slept most of the day, and not fitfully as she had been doing, woken by dreams of something going horribly wrong with the baby and then in turn waking him in her panic. He'd lost count of how many nights he'd ended up holding her close and talking lowly until he'd lulled her back to sleep.

He turned the page in her book, _The Confidence-Man_ , his Christmas gift to her—after she had carried it upstairs with them, he had taken to reading when he couldn't sleep anymore but didn't want to wake her by getting up—and Augusta shifted next to him. One arm around her, Goodnight rubbed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head, which he was using to prop up her book, but it did no good to soothe her. She shifted again, face contorting in discomfort, and blinked open her eyes.

"My back is really hurting," Augusta told him sleepily, eyes shut tightly again. She sucked in a deep breath.

"I'll get you something if you'd like," he offered, sliding a ribbon between the pages. By then, his little wife was very round and much less mobile; Goodnight hadn't wanted to bring her to New Orleans, but she'd insisted that they come, arguing that it would be social ruin if Valentine wasn't there, and she wanted to be in the city to have the baby christened. So of course, since Goodnight could never tell her no, they ended up in New Orleans.

"I would like—" Augusta began, before her eyes sprang open, the size of saucers, and her face drained of all of its color. She all but shot up, knocking her book to the floor. "MAMMY!"

"Darlin'," was all Goodnight managed to get out, and then Mammy came running into the room so fast that Goodnight swore she had hearing like a dog's—or at least when it came to her baby Gussa.

"Mammy!" Augusta shrieked again, sounding immensely like Oceane and squeezing the pillow next to her so tightly that Goodnight thought she'd put a hole in it.

Mammy took one look at Augusta before she shook her head at Goodnight. "Oh, Lord, Mr. Goodnight, you go get your mama."

Under normal circumstances, Goodnight would have not hesitated in doing exactly what Augusta's mammy said, but he was still trying to process how Augusta screaming for Mammy led to him needing to find his mother, and why Augusta looked so petrified. He couldn't very well leave to find his mother when his wife was in such a state. "Gus, darlin', are you alright?"

"Ba—ba—baby—" was the only thing Augusta could say between her thick, gasping breaths, and Goodnight's mouth fell open. The baby was coming, his baby, his and Augusta's baby. He'd known for months this was coming, but now that it was here, it didn't feel real.

Not to him, at least. To Augusta, it looked as though it felt very real. She clutched tightly at her bodice, twisting it in her grip, and he hadn't seen her face so ashen since the night of the Castex ball two years ago. Her chest heaved up and down rapidly, too fast for comfort, and Goodnight rushed to take her hand and tighten his hold on her. "Shh, _ma vie_ , I've got you," he breathed close to her ear, hoping it was the right way to handle the situation.

Mammy's nose flared at Goodnight ignoring her, but all her could do was pet August's hair, not noticing that Mammy was speaking. Gone from Augusta's eyes were all the things he'd come to recognize in his wife, replaced with nothing but pure panic. He pulled her closer to him, fear radiating off her like heat, and Goodnight felt powerless to do anything besides stroke her hair, already dampening with sweat. He turned her head towards him, placing his palms on either side of her face, and kissed where her lips usually were when they weren't pressed together so tightly. "Augusta, _ma vie_."

Augusta relaxed her lips when she felt his, and he leaned his forehead against hers. When she managed one deep, shuddering breath, he opened his eyes to find hers filling with tears. She whispered, "Oh, Goody...I'm so scared."

"Hey, darlin', you'll be fine—"

"I'm so afraid something will go wrong. You know I've been having all of those nightmares, Goody, and I'm so scared. What if...what if they come true? What if he's dead, or what if he doesn't have all his toes or something? What if—"

"Oh, darlin', _ma vie,_ those are just dreams. They don't mean a thing," Goodnight soothed, swiping his thumb under her eyes as a select few tears escaped. He struggled to think of another time when he had done so, and when he couldn't, he kissed her again, softer, trying to put all his reassurance into it.

"I'm so scared." He could believe it, the way her voice trembled, how she clutched at his vest, as if attempting to stop him from going anywhere. "Goody, please don't leave."

Goodnight sat stock-still, unable to process what she had just requested. Men didn't stay with their wives during labor…did they? And if they did, what were they supposed to do? He could vaguely recall squatting in the parlor with his hands over his ears but still hearing his mother scream when Valentine was born before a maid had realized he was in the house and shooed him out. If that was how Augusta would react, he didn't want to be in the same room, having to watch her. But since his father hadn't stayed with his mother and he'd already made Mammy angry, Goodnight doubted he would be able to stay.

In the hall, Mammy rushed into the room with a pile of towels, and his mother shouted for Valentine. When he didn't answer, Augusta pulled on his vest. "Goody…"

"Gus, you know Mammy won't allow that," he said, hoping he wouldn't face Augusta's full wrath if he mentioned Mammy. Her lip began to quiver, and it was all he could do to pry her fingers from his clothes as he tried to face her on the bed. "No, no, Gus, listen. Listen, darlin'. I will be right here until she pulls me away, and I will be right here the moment that door opens again."

With his handkerchief, he dabbed at her forehead, kissing the faint white scar from the Castex ball. Augusta pressed even closer into his side, but all he could do was wipe away her perspiration and kiss her, afraid to move to even fetch her a glass of water. Goodnight ran his lips up and down her jaw and kept his face by her ear.

" _À la claire fontaine m'en allant promener_ ," he began quietly.

As he sang, Augusta slowly loosened her grip on his vest enough that he could entwine their fingers together, and her breathing calmed, though her chest still rose and fell heavily. She crushed his fingers every so often, though Goodnight assumed that was more from fear than pain. When he reached the refrain, he tilted her chin up so that she looked him in the eye. "Sing with me."

" _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ," she quivered with him, " _jamais je ne t'oublierai."_

"Goody," Augusta murmured after a long pause when the song concluded, head on his shoulder, eyes closed. "If I die—"

"Don't say that," Goodnight chided automatically, but Augusta shook her head.

"Listen, if I die, then under no circumstance are you allowed to name this child Goodnight Augusta, or Goodnight Augustus, or any combination of those names. I am Augusta, and you're Goodnight, and we're the only Goodnight and Augusta that the world needs."

While Goodnight laughed, glad that she had finally calmed down enough for humor, Augusta's face screwed up again, and she whimpered, turning his fingers white beneath her grip. He grimaced but teased, "Don't you worry, darlin'. I think Ames or Oceane Robicheaux have better rings to them."

"I declare, Goodnight Robicheaux, if you do that, I will haunt you all your life."

Eventually his mother came into the room, and outside, Mammy told Sam to keep him calm and out of the way. Goodnight knew their time was up. With a final kiss, he dabbed at her forehead one last time and swiped his thumbs over her cheeks. " _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ," he murmured, which she whispered back.

It wasn't until he stepped into the hallway, door closing behind him, and stood in front of Sam that the weight of the situation hit him. The color draining from his face, he stared at Sam as the contents in his stomach threatened to betray him. "My Lord. Gus is having a baby."

In response, Sam merely smirked and said, "We've got some of that good whiskey you like in the kitchen."

* * *

"When you read Homer, Billy, there's never any mention of the color blue. Did you know that?"

Billy shoots him a look that says, _Are you really asking me that question?_ Like he even knows who Homer is.

"Well. Homer calls the sky white, and the sea is 'wine-dark.' And maybe I've been looking at the wrong seas, but as far as I know, the water is blue, maybe black in a storm, and the daytime sky is blue. Clouds are white, but the sky? It's blue. And do you know why he never mentions blue?"

"He didn't like it."

With an eye roll, Goodnight says, "No, Billy. The Greeks never had a word for it. And that's what it's like to see your child for the first time. You can get relatively close when you describe it, but not exact."

* * *

More bashful than he'd been since he was attending his first ball, Goodnight stood in the doorway and licked his lips, twisting his hat fretfully in his hands. Augusta laid on the bed, propped up by more pillows than Goodnight realized they'd owned with her hair fanned out on them, pale and dark-eyed but beaming as brightly as she had on their wedding day. In her arms, she cuddled a swaddled bundle.

"He's slightly ugly and smells a little funny, but I have to say that I absolutely adore him." When he didn't move, she whispered, "Come see him."

"He?" That meant Augusta had been right. They had a boy, his wife was holding their son, that was his boy in her arms, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to rush over, or if he was too nervous to even peek at him; whatever he felt, his legs didn't respond when she waved him over. He could only ask, "Does he look like you?"

Glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, Augusta pursed her lips as she tried to hold back a smile. "I just called him slightly ugly, Goody. If I were you, I'd tread lightly. Now come here."

Augusta waved him over again, and, feet like lead, he shuffled over and took a seat on the edge of the bed next to her. When she held out her arms, Goodnight started to shake his head that no, he could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to hold the bundle, lest he do it wrong or drop him—the only baby he'd ever held was Valentine nearly seventeen years ago—but Augusta insisted on settling him in her arms, and the baby pressed closer to his chest.

"He's…wrinkled." And tiny and red with a head full of straw-colored hair, and he did smell funny, but he was awe-inspiring. Goodnight moved the blanket just enough that his little hands peeked out, little hands with the tiniest fingers he'd ever seen, and for some reason he couldn't explain, there was a wave of relief that all five were there.

For once, Goodnight didn't have the words to express everything he was thinking. His wife had given him… _this._ This was the one thing that was completely and totally theirs. Glad he wasn't facing her, his eyes prickled, but Augusta noticed anyway. She laid her head on his shoulder.

"I was thinking Beau."

"Beau," he asked, finally glancing at her again, using his shoulder to dry his cheek. She didn't have to speak to explain.

 _Beau-pére_ , _beau-mére_. Beau for his father.

* * *

"I prayed more during the war than I've ever prayed in my entire life. But when Gus had fallen asleep and Mammy had taken Beau from me, I went to our room, and I knelt at our bedside, and bowed my head. I prayed, 'Lord God Almighty, my son and my wife, _ma vie_ and _mon soleil,_ please keep them in your hands. Please, let me get this right, let me do right by them.'

"There are so many things they don't tell you about marriage. Not the unreasonable sorrow from untangling yourself from your wife every morning when you rise and leave her in bed, or how she will never be more beautiful than when she's disheveled after giving you a child.

"And he was Sunday's child, bonnie and blithe and good and gay. Sometimes I'd look at him, laughing away without a care in the world no matter the situation, and I'd tease Augusta that maybe he was Ames's. But he proved he was my son. We named him Beauregard Evercreech Robicheaux, but for a few weeks there, I thought we'd end up calling him Goodnight as well."

"He was a good boy, though. Happiest child you ever did see, never cried past his colicky phase unless he scared himself. He'd run right through the prickle bushes without a single tear, but one time—" Goodnight chuckles at himself. "This one time, when he was old enough to go up and down the stairs but not to the point where he was very good at it, he took a bit of a spill. We weren't sure if it was because of his skill or if the dog got under him, but he went tumbling down a good ten steps. I don't know what scared me more, his fall or Augusta's shriek, and I can't think of a moment where she moved faster. But I'll tell you what, he didn't have a thing wrong with him, not even a bruise, just the living daylights scared out of him."

It's fitting, Billy thinks, that Goodnight's son would have been that tough, judging from how his father is.

* * *

"We came as soon as we heard," Mathilde gushed from the foyer the moment he came into sight, clapping her hand and muff together and hopping from foot to foot. "So tell us everything!"

"Shhh," Goodnight hissed, coming down the stairs, surprised they were there. "If you wake either one of them, Mammy will have your heads."

"Is it a girl or boy?" Mathilde insisted, tugging on his vest when he reached them, while next to her, Ames laughed, "Goodnight Robicheaux, you sonovabitch, just look at your smile."

"I thought you two were supposed to be at the opera." They were dressed as though they had been going, Ames's silk tie and top hat askew, Mathilde in a fine trailing ball gown and ermine furs, one hand hidden in her muff while the free one shook Goodnight's vest like the information would fall out if she tried hard enough.

"We were, but we'd hoped you and Val might show up. We—"

"We had to ask Salome where you were," Mathilde snarled, and Goodnight chuckled, feeling like he should defend his sister-in-law but understanding where Mathilde was coming from. Perhaps it was because Augusta liked her, but somehow Salome had grown on him, no matter how she had snubbed his Parisian bonnet. "No wonder we haven't seen you though! Oh, I can't believe we haven't come to check on you two, some friends we are."

"It just happened last night. I haven't been out because Gus couldn't go out, and I hate to leave her cooped up here alone with Val and my mama." Knowing he couldn't keep them in the foyer, not with how loud they both could be, Goodnight jerked his head for them to follow him downstairs to the kitchen where their supply of alcohol was kept.

Sam and Ruth were taking their dinner at the kitchen table, and they both stood when Goodnight and his guests came down the stairs, Ruth ducking her head and skimping out of the room immediately, muttering something about checking on Miss Augusta. Sam began to follow, but Goodnight waved his hand. If they were celebrating with close friends, it was only fitting that Sam join as well; that, and Goodnight couldn't deny that there was something noble, if not stupid, that Sam had stayed—not that Augusta hadn't been tickled pink to have him around still. "Have a drink with us, Sam. If you get Miss Mattie here some wine, I'll find us something with a bit more potency."

Sam hesitated, looking just as uncomfortable as Ames and Mathilde, who exchanged glances and uncertain snarls with one another, but when Goodnight gathered the whiskey tumblers, Sam went to the wine rack as he was told. "Go on you two, have a seat. We're celebrating again, Sam."

"Jesus, Goody, you're going to let this nigger have drinks with us? At the same table," Ames scoffed, obviously slightly offended.

Goodnight, already seated at the table and ready to pour his second glass of whiskey, glanced up with hard eyes, doing a complete turnaround from how joyful he'd been only a moment ago. "Ames, this here is Augusta's long-time friend Sam. You'll do well to remember that."

For a long, tense moment, Ames stared his friend down, Mathilde looking back and forth between her husband and Goodnight. Eventually Ames shrugged; there was a reason why he'd never given up whiskey for Lent. "Ah hell. Your baby, your party. So, do we have a godson or goddaughter?"

"You'll have to take that up with Augusta as to your relationship with our son."

Mathilde squealed, clapping her hands again. "Oh, tell us everything! Is he beautiful? What will you name him? And Aggie, how is she? May we see them?"

Goodnight downed his glass, and with a smile, Sam poured him another; they'd already gone through this process the night before. "Well, we'd thought we'd name him Beau, and as Gus said—and rightly so—he's slightly ugly, but they grow out of that… Gus was terrified when it all started, but she's fine now, real tired though. She was sleeping when I came down. Lord knows she deserves it after these past couple of months."

Ames nodded solemnly in agreement but said, "We are the godparents, though, right? Come on, Goody, you can't take this away from us."

With a sly look to Sam, Goodnight shrugged. "You'll have to take that up with Augusta. I think she wanted to ask Salome."

Uttering those words was worth it to see Mathilde's nose flare.

* * *

The first two weeks went smoothly. After that...Goodnight thought he'd rather listen to Augusta's goddamn birds than the screaming.

"This is my retribution," Goodnight moaned, bouncing his red-faced son in his arms while his mother and sister looked on with a mix of pity and something else he didn't quite want to name. "The Fates have a way of paying you back."

"What _are_ you muttering about," Valentine griped, frowning magnificently over her magazine. "I declare, you shut up just about as much as he does."

"Val, why don't you try to hush him," their mother offered—anything to try her daughter's maternal instinct, which had yet to rear its head.

"No, I don't like him," she insisted, pressing back into the sofa like Goodnight might scald her at any moment with the baby.

"Valentine!" their mother gasped, aghast.

"Well it's true. I don't like him, or any other baby for that matter. I'm not having children when I get married."

"Yeah, you see how well that goes over with Sacha." His words made Valentine's face redden, though it could have been more from embarrassment than fury; Sacha Castex hadn't actually proposed yet.

"Why isn't your _wife_ doing this? At least then he'd be upstairs." Valentine buried her face back in her magazine, obviously unable to think of a good enough retort.

As much as he wanted to pawn off the wailing on Augusta, she'd endured it the entire night and the day before, and even though she hadn't complained once, her bloodshot eyes were guilting him. He'd taken their colicky baby in an attempt to let her rest, but something told him that Beau was echoing all the way upstairs.

Catching his mother's eye, he noticed she had the faintest grin on her face, a rare commodity recently. Since his father had passed away, she'd drifted about, lost, not knowing what to do with herself, but Beau had given her a new task, a new way to occupy her time. "You were just like that," she whispered.

"There aren't enough apologies in the world for this, Mama."

"Give him to me, and I'll take him to Mammy. You look like you could use the sleep as much as Augusta. Men never could deal with this as well." Not bothering to hide his relief, Goodnight passed Beau to his mother and made a beeline for the stairs before she could come to her senses.

After nearly a year, Goodnight had become incredibly adroit at not disturbing his wife while he got in and out of bed. He was completely prepared to slip inside, having already taken off his boots outside the door, but when he opened the door, Augusta's tired eyes met him. She blinked slowly and asked, "Did he finally go to sleep?"

"Mama took him downstairs," Goodnight sighed, flopping onto the space next to her. Without waiting for him to be fully settled, Augusta scooted closer and fixed herself at his side, head on his chest. Goodnight attempted to smooth her curls, and Augusta, throwing an arm across his chest, laced their fingers together.

"Goody," she said quietly, a little slurred, after a moment.

"Yes, Gus?"

"I've waited a respectable amount of time before I brought this up again," Augusta mumbled matter-of-factly, and Goodnight grinned into her hair. "Now I was named Augusta because I was born in August and I suppose my mother ran out of originality after naming my sisters, and Valentine got her name because she was born on Saint Valentine's day, but how did you get your name?

Goodnight rubbed his hands over his face, wishing there was a better explanation to how he became _Goodnight._ He sighed, "Oh, Lord…I promised I'd tell you, didn't I? I guess you could say I got it by acting like Beau."

"How do you mean?" Augusta touched her cold toes to his shins, and Goodnight could feel their chill through his stockings. Or maybe he was so used to feeling her toes on his bare legs that he knew they were cold. He raised a leg to let her press her feet between them.

"Well, once upon a time, many, many years ago, my mama and daddy were in the very same predicament as us. They had a tiny little sprout who hollered and hollered his head off from the time he was born, and after about two weeks, my daddy said, 'Go-od night, Franny, we're never going to have a peaceful evening again, are we?' And from then on, every evening, he'd say to the little sprout, 'Good night. Please?'

"Sometime between then and my christening, I went from being a Francis to Goodnight."

Tilting her head just enough to peek up at him from beneath her lashes, Augusta searched his face for any sign of trickery. But Goodnight did not possess quite the same mastery of weaving yarns as she, and obviously finding no deception in his features, she hummed quietly and turned over onto her other side, pulling Goodnight with her so that he was forced to mold his body to hers.

"So you've never been a quiet person. I should have known," Augusta managed through a yawn.

* * *

When Augusta's bedroom door opened, she expected it to be Goodnight, though why he'd enter that way was beside her, but she hoped it would be a pleasant surprise to have Valentine closing the door behind her. Valentine had proven to be perfectly friendly when it suited her, such as when she needed a chaperone or was in _dire_ need of conversation; other than that, she left Augusta alone.

"Is something the matter," Augusta asked, noticing Valentine's hurried manner. Normally Valentine moved like every step was a dance, graceful and floating through the air, head high enough to reflect her family name but not so high as to be considered haughty, but now she frowned, arms drawn closely to her.

Making herself right at home, Valentine sat down on Augusta's bed, legs crossed and mouth pressed in a thin line. She wadded the sheets in her hands. "Can I talk to you?"

Augusta only nodded, not sure how to handle this serious Valentine.

"I think Sacha is going to propose. Actually, that's not true. I know he is, so long as Goody lets him," Valentine said finally, releasing a heavy sigh. She looked at Augusta with the same sharp blue eyes as her brother.

Augusta tried to read those familiar eyes like she did with Goodnight, wondering if Sacha's proposal was a good thing or not, but Valentine was not as easy as her brother. She took a shot in the dark, "And you want me to persuade him to do so?"

"That's just it—I don't know! On one hand, I can't marry beneath me, but on the other, I've blocked out most of my other suitors. Can you imagine _me_ being an old maid," Valentine huffed, rolling her eyes, but her brow was arched in a way that suggested genuine worry. "I'd have to start all over again if I truly said no. I'm already seventeen."

"Well I was nineteen when Goody and I got married," Augusta chuckled; maybe she was an old maid in Valentine's eyes. She placed her hand on Valentine's, trying both to get her to release the sheets and ease her worry. "Do you feel like he's beneath you?"

"I feel like he's the closest to our status that I'll get around here. He's nice," Valentine conceded with a shrug after a beat.

"If you don't feel like he's beneath you, then he isn't," Augusta told her, but she felt her lips involuntarily turn down. While prominent members of the community, Augusta's family was not as wealthy as Goodnight's by any means. She had tried to tell herself that no one they knew was as wealthy as the Robicheauxes, but the thought didn't bring much comfort.

"How did you know to marry Goody," Valentine asked suddenly. Surprised by the question, Augusta searched Valentine's face for any sign of dishonesty, but finding none, she tried to think of an answer.

"Well," Augusta thought, shaking her head. "We just…got along. He was handsome and charming, and he made me laugh. He made me feel like my thoughts were valid. I loved him, and he loved me, and I knew he would take care of me. But Val…I can't tell you what to do, but if you think it's a good decision, I can put my two cents in with your brother. If not, I'll put my two cents in for that too."

"He spoils you," Valentine quipped, but she smirked in a way that said she didn't mean any harm.

"Yes he does," Augusta agreed, sharing a smile with Valentine. She wished Goodnight's sister could always be like this; this is what sisters were supposed to be like. And then she hoped that, since Valentine was in a rare, kind mood, maybe she would answer Augusta's own question. "Val, be honest. Does anyone think Goodnight married beneath him?"

"With you? Lord no! He struck gold with you. He would have driven anyone else insane," Valentine snorted, tossing her pretty blonde head, and having amused herself, smiled before she sobered. She took a deep breath. "Augusta…I'm glad he chose you."

 _Well butter me up and call me a biscuit,_ Augusta thought as her head spun, and she wondered if the world was ending. Sure, Valentine could be sweet when she chose, but that was downright saccharine for her. Augusta floundered for a moment while she tried to collect herself, but Valentine spoke again.

"I mean it. It was good for all of us having you the past few months. And even if that brat of yours did steal the limelight from my birthday, Goody needed him, and so did Mama."

"He won't colic forever," Augusta defended, perfectly guilty that Valentine's birthday had been overshadowed by a wailing baby. With Beau so young and fussy, they hadn't been able to throw a ball, but Mrs. Robicheaux had taken Valentine to find a new dress for Fat Tuesday and they'd had a smoked ham for dinner, which pacified Valentine enough.

A sharp retort seemed poised on Valentine's tongue, but thankfully Augusta was saved from it by her door opening again. Goodnight jumped when he saw Valentine, and he stammered an apologetic excuse while he tried to leave. Valentine rolled her eyes; the resemblance of a cat catching a mouse reappeared. "Just come in, Goody, I'm leaving anyway. _Honestly_. It's not a secret you can't act like normal human beings and sleep in your own beds, you know. You aren't fooling anyone."

* * *

" _Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,_

 _When you are King, dilly dilly, I'll be your queen,_

 _Close we will live, dilly dilly, and when we die,_

 _Both in one grave, dilly dilly, close we will lie,_

 _If I die first, dilly dilly, and that may be,_

 _You must live on, dilly dilly, thinking of me._

 _If you die first, dilly dilly, maybe you will,_

 _I will live on, dilly dilly, loving you still."_

It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

Long curls cascading freely down her back, Augusta moved slowly around the room, barefoot even in the winter's chill, bouncing Beau oh so gently in her arms with an expression of complete and utter serenity on her face. All felt so perfectly clear; this was the stuff of poets, what every eloquent word had been written about. This was what Goodnight had been put on the earth to do, to take care the little woman and the flesh of their souls.

If Augusta noticed him, she gave no indication but continued with her song. One of Beau's flailing fists caught a strand of her hair, but the smile on her lips said she didn't mind him pulling one bit.

* * *

Alerted by an ear-piercing screech, Goodnight and Augusta only had time enough to realize what was happening before Hattie, now Hattie Petipas instead of Hattie Verret, hurled herself through the crowd, pushing Goodnight out of the way, and latched onto Augusta's neck.

"I haven't seen you in ages," Hattie anguished, rocking them back and forth, and Augusta merely laughed, returning the hug tightly. Not long after they had returned from Paris, Hattie had married in June to a man named Louis Petipas from Lafayette, someone she hadn't known longer than the past Mardi Gras season. But he'd had an exquisite estate, and Hattie had jumped on the chance.

"I've missed you too," Augusta said before she pried off Hattie.

Breathless and overjoyed, Hattie brushed blond curls from her face and motioned for Augusta to spin. In honor of Fat Tuesday, Goodnight had returned home that morning, much to Augusta's delighted disproval, from the dress shop and Adler's with a magnificent damask-printed ball gown and matching amethyst choker, insisting that it was tradition for her to have a new dress. When she wasn't fully appeased by that, he'd told her that it was so she could make a statement as her first time hosting.

"Just look at you, decked from head to toe in jewels and in another new dress. I don't know how you can keep your head up with that stone. Can you dress her up anymore, Goodnight?"

"If only she'd let me," Goodnight said, earning an eye roll from Augusta.

"She's not your plaything, Goodnight, and if you're not decent to her, I'll hang you from your toes, I swear I will," Hattie scolded, but her lips faltered out of her scowl just enough to let him know she was mostly teasing. When she couldn't keep her unhappy face any longer, she swatted at Goodnight's arm and turned her back to him. "Well, I guess every woman here will be wearing amethysts around her neck and her hair twisted like _the_ Mrs. Goodnight Robicheaux's on Sunday, making their husbands match them, won't they? You lucky things."

"Don't be silly, Hattie, no one will want to take after me—"

"No one will be able to afford it. Good lord, Goodnight, was this thing really necessary," Mathilde asked, picking up the massive amethyst hanging around Augusta's neck. She shook her head.

"You're corrupting her, you peacock. Whatever happened to my sweet, unobtrusive little Aggie?" Without giving Goodnight time to answer, Mathilde shook her finger in his face. "I'll tell you what happened to her—you married her."

"As my memory serves, you were quite in favor of our relationship, Hattie," Goodnight told her.

"That was before I knew what you would do. Look, you've turned her into something positively de-vine. What do you think she is, a queen?"

"My queen," Goodnight teased, just to watch Augusta blush and Hattie snarl her nose.

"You two are sickening."

Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, but Augusta placed her hand on his arm, stepping partially between Hattie and him. She gave him a cautioning look. "Hattie, why don't you introduce us to Louis? We barely had time to make acquaintances at your wedding."

"Introduce you? Good lord, no! I was escaping from him when I saw you. You can introduce me to this sweet baby of yours, though. Ames and Mattie won't shut up about him, so I have high expectations."

Goodnight watched as sympathy passed over Augusta's face, followed by guilt, emotions he knew after having seen the same ones expressed whenever they spoke about Hattie. Occasionally the twin wrote to Augusta, never with anything pleasant to say about her new husband. While Augusta fussed about Hattie marrying a man she had no interest in whatsoever but whose house was the most beautiful of her suitors, she had yet to do it with a guiltless face. Goodnight could only assume that, after the twins had been instrumental in her own betrothal, she felt guilty that she was the one in the happy marriage, but Mathilde had no children and Hattie hated her husband. Augusta was funny like that.

But Augusta brushed it off and asked if Goodnight would be fine if she quickly took Hattie downstairs to see Beau.

"Gus, the ball will not crash if you step away for a moment. I really can do a _few_ things without you," he teased, and Augusta rolled her eyes but linked arms with Hattie.

* * *

They'd returned home after Easter with Valentine engaged and a new baby. Valentine picked a day once a week to drive everyone up the wall with wedding preparations, but now he'd passed through his colic, the only sounds Beau, no longer pink or wrinkled, made were contented coos and laughs. Goodnight spent his days keeping the fields running with his new overseer, a much more pleasant man than March had been, while Augusta, with Beau always on her hip, tried her best to keep the house going and his mother and sister from throttling each other. In the evenings, the five Robicheauxes gathered in the parlor for Valentine to play the piano or Augusta to read, leaving Goodnight free to wallow in the floor with Beau.

Life was good at Foxsong.

When he heard Augusta stirring, Goodnight knew he had not been as successful at disentangling himself from his wife as most mornings. He was buttoning his pants when she rolled onto her back and regarded him through sleepy, half-opened eyes. "What's on your agenda today, Gus?"

Augusta rubbed her face, and when she brought her hands down, she'd somehow managed to wipe away the sleep. "Well, I was going to do a reading lesson and see how the one in the accident is doing before breakfast, and I have to get the cake made for the picnic on tomorrow. I need to check on Mathilde, she wasn't feeling well the last I heard. Oh—and we have to get Valentine's trousseau fitted before she drives your mother to murder."

"I don't hear my name in that schedule," Goodnight sighed, abandoning his dressing and crawling back in bed with his wife. Augusta was much better about waking up than he was, but even she seemed to have no interest in rousing herself today.

"We can take a walk this evening, perhaps read a book. And you know your name is synonymous with lunch," she murmured into his chest, throwing one leg over his, working to undo his careful untangling.

* * *

On the western part of the Robicheaux property, before Louisiana had been sold to the United States, Goodnight's great-great-grandfather had built the mill and slave quarters, hidden behind a line of trees so that the less-glamorous inner workings of Foxsong would be invisible to its residents and guests. Goodnight preferred to spend his time among the fields and not the village, but no matter how much he didn't want to visit, he still made the ride out there, toting Augusta's horse behind him.

Surrounded by a horde of children, Augusta was seated on her blanket in front of the kitchens at the far end of the cabins. A sore thumb with his fair hair and skin, Beau gnawed happily on the watch hanging around her neck, and the two were engaged in a cycle of Augusta, not looking down, pulling it from his mouth before he picked it up again, which ended when she finally tossed behind her and replaced it with her finger in Beau's mouth. Her blackboard beside her, she pointed to the different words she had written, and whatever the children were saying made her smile radiantly, nodding her head enthusiastically. Goodnight couldn't keep his own grin from his lips as he watched them.

Beau, not interested in the least with Augusta's lesson, caught sight of Goodnight first and flapped his chubby little hands excitedly. Augusta tried to calm him by rubbing her hand over his wild tufts of dark blond curls; Beau may have taken most of his looks from Goodnight, but Augusta's curls hadn't missed him. His fingers furling and unfurling in a pantomime of what they did before they picked him up, Augusta finally turned away from her lesson to see Goodnight ride up. She shielded her eyes with her hand.

"Pardon me," he said to the group of children, who all ducked their heads, "but I'd like a word with the schoolmarm, if you wouldn't mind."

"Have I missed lunch? I'm not sure my watch is working after Beau got ahold of it." Her easy expression melted away when she saw his apprehension. "Is something the matter?"

"It's Ames. He sent a message over just now asking if we'd come, something about Mathilde."

* * *

"I-I didn't know who to send for," Ames, waiting for them on the porch, babbled when they were close enough to hear, and Goodnight understood exactly what he meant; no one ever knew who to send for when they needed help.

Unlike Foxsong, Aurore had only two floors, with the kitchens taking up the bottom one and the family living in the top; a double-staircase led to the main entrance, hiding the slave entrance below, and the entire house was surrounded by a porch. Instead of white, like most homes in the area were, Aurore had been painted a magnificent shade of yellow, complete with bright blue shutters and white trim, and under most circumstances, Goodnight thought it fitting that Ames lived in such a sunny home. At the moment, however, his friend was anything but sunny, his clothing wrinkled and his face sporting stubble.

"Shit, I haven't—ah hell, I don't even know," he continued, and Goodnight and Augusta exchanged a worried glance; Goodnight had always imagined that the world could be ending but Ames would be laughing away and asking where his drink was. But here he was, coming apart at the seams, and what a frightening picture it made.

Goodnight's horse hadn't even completely stopped before he'd hopped off and was moving to help Augusta down. "Keep him calm, and I'll check on Mattie," she whispered to him as he put her on the ground.

Ames met them halfway down the steps, arms outstretched, still babbling incoherently, and Augusta took his hands in hers when she reached him. "Now Ames, I want you to take a breath and tell me what's going on."

Ames only followed half of her request. "It's Mattie. She...I guess she got sick or something, but they haven't let me see her."

Bringing forth a surge of pride from Goodnight, Augusta patted Ames's cheek and smiled warmly. "Ames, here's what's going to happen. You're going to take a deep breath because you've yet to do that, and then you're going to pour some drink, and I'll look in on your wife."

* * *

Aurore's somber housekeeper led Augusta down the long hall to Mathilde, and Augusta's heart dropped with every step. She hadn't known Ames very well before he'd decided he wanted her to marry Goodnight, but she knew he was always bright. In the past two years, she'd taken to frequenting Aurore and learned Ames kept as merry a house as he kept merry of spirits. But now the house exuded gloom, and she rapped on Mathilde's door with more hesitation than she'd ever known. Without permission, she pushed back the door just enough to peek into the room.

Her fair hair in a nappy braid and doing nothing to give off the familiar cheery air that always surrounded her, Mathilde was propped up on pillows, eyes swollen and rimmed in red. She'd always had a leaner face than her twin and an easier disposition, and Augusta had never known her face to be swollen and tear-streaked.

"Oh. It's you," Mathilde whispered in a hoarse voice, and promptly turned her face away.

"Mathilde," Augusta said, immediately at the bedside, "tell me what's wrong, please."

"I don't want to talk to you, Augusta. I don't want to talk to anyone," Mathilde sobbed, erupting into tears, burying her face in a handful of sheets.

Augusta glanced to the door, hoping that maybe Ames—or anyone—would come to her aid, but when it didn't open, she tried to steel herself. A distressed Mathilde was not in her realm of expertise. "Well, then, let's sit here and cry."

This earned a choked laugh from Mathilde, who turned one eye towards her friend. "You never cry."

 _Not true_ , Augusta almost said, but she stopped herself when she realized Mathilde would never believe her. She squeezed herself into the space next to Mathilde and pulled her friend to her. "What happened?"

"I lost it," Mathilde whispered. "I hadn't told Ames yet because I was so scared this would happen, we'd been married for so long."

Augusta mulled over what Mathilde had said before she understood. She had thought she was coming over to nurse her ill friend, not comfort her after a tragedy, and she felt highly unprepared to say the least. "Oh. Mattie...you poor thing. Mattie, I'm so sorry."

Mathilde launched into a new round of tears, clutching Augusta to her as she buried her face in Augusta's chest, and Augusta stroked her disheveled braid. "He'll leave me, Augusta. This proves I can't have children. When he finds out, he'll leave me, I just know it," she sobbed, frighteningly close to hysterics.

Augusta reeled back in surprise, snarling before she realized it. "Mathilde Rubadeau, how could you ever say such a thing?"

If Mathilde hadn't seemed so serious, Augusta thought she would probably laugh. Ames would leave her, _indeed_. Ames would read the entire Robicheaux library before he even considered hosting the idea of leaving Mathilde. It had been an unspoken, unanimous decision that there hadn't been another couple in the three surrounding parishes who had been better suited to each other, and while Ames may have taken his time in proposing, there had never been a doubt in anyone's mind that he would do it. After Mathilde had made her debut and been introduced to Ames that night, no other gentleman had bothered to compete.

"I can't do my job. He's not going to want me," Mathilde insisted, shaking her head and tugging Augusta back to her.

"Mathilde, don't be silly. Ames adores you, and he's not going to leave you. Why else do you think he would let you run him wild? You should see him right now, all ragged with worry. He loves you." Augusta pried Mathilde from her dress and wiped Mathilde's eyes with her handkerchief. Her poor, beautiful friend, much more a sister than any of her blood ones. "Now, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to comb your hair and put it in a fresh braid, and then I'm going to go get Ames—"

"Augusta—"

"Listen to me," Augusta said firmly, cupping Mathilde's cheek. "You have to tell Ames. This is...this is nothing short of a tragedy, and he deserves to know. He's your husband, he's the only one who can make it right."

Mathilde's lip quivered, but she nodded and sat up so that Augusta could get to her hair. As she was unravelling Mathilde's braid, Augusta said, "And Goody and I still expect you for dinner on Thursday."

Mathilde winced when Augusta hit a particularly rough snarl. And then, so quietly that Augusta barely heard her even though it was only the two of them, Mathilde said, "Ames and I...we weren't chaste when we got married, not like you and Goodnight. Do you think that's why?"

Augusta was glad that Mathilde couldn't see her face. "No," she said, unable to keep the ache from her voice, "no, Mattie, I don't. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people."

* * *

That evening, with Mrs. Robicheaux and Valentine working on the wedding dress, Goodnight laid on the parlor floor and held Beau above him in the air while his son cackled with nothing less than delight. Across the room, Augusta used the last bit of waning sunlight to stitch the knees of Beau's pants, which he had promptly crawled through, and reattach the shoulder to Goodnight's shirt, a feat Goodnight had not been able to explain.

"If I couldn't have children, would you stay with me?"

Goodnight did a double-take at the sudden question, and his expression must have amused Beau because the child thwacked him on the forehead with a chortle. Augusta's lips didn't break into her usual grin but stayed in a worried line. "What demon has possessed you that you'd ask such a thing?"

"I just…" Augusta trailed off, shaking her head. She hurriedly picked up her sewing. "Never mind. I don't know why I asked that."

At being ignored, Beau thumped Goodnight on the forehead again, and while he made a face guaranteed to make his son laugh again, he couldn't rid himself of the unease that surrounded Augusta's question. Beau was wonderful, handsome with the signature Robicheaux blue eyes and Augusta's curly hair, always sure to put anyone in high spirits—even his Aunt Valentine had abandoned her dislike after he was no longer colicky. In Goodnight's own little world at Foxsong, Beau had become the sun that gave all of them life.

But without Augusta, there would be no _soleil_.

Goodnight looked fully at Augusta and lowered Beau so that he sat on his chest. Breaking her concentration on her sewing, he asked, "What did I say at the wedding?"

Augusta glanced back up at him, brow furrowing, and Goodnight raised himself to his elbow, keeping one hand on Beau's back. " _Ma_ _vie_ , my life—that's you. I won't deny it, we had a rough year, but I had you, and we got through it. Now we have a lovely child as a reward, and I love him more than I ever would have thought possible, Augusta.

"But I loved you when we didn't have Beau, and I would love you with or without him."

" _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_ ," Augusta mumbled as her neck filled with color, and she ducked her head to hide a smile.

" _Jamais je ne t'oublierai_ ," Goodnight returned just as quietly, and Beau burbled something in his own language to get Goodnight's attention again.

"Daddy. Dad-dy," Goodnight said slowly, knowing the chance that Beau would repeat it was slim.

"It's no use. He won't say it, and believe me, I've tried."

The image of Augusta trying to get Beau to speak filled his mind. He could see her sitting there on the sofa with Beau in her lap, repeating "daddy" over and over with the hope that Beau would learn the word, knowing exactly how ecstatic Goodnight would be when he heard his name first. He couldn't help but smile widely, and in return, Beau gave a gummy one back before he babbled:

"Ma-ma-ma."


	10. Chapter 10

**For the record, I've been posting this on Ao3 more than I have .**

 **Billy: Winter 1877  
Augusta: Christmas 1858**

 **Fun Fact: Christmas trees really began gaining popularity in the U.S. beginning in 1850. I'm not sure how it would have spread by 1858, but since things come slowly to the South, I'm going to say it hasn't reached New Orleans yet.**

 **I'm ready for war.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Mag7. I wish I did, but I don't.**

* * *

"Did you know I was at Chantilly," Goodnight asks, tired of the quiet. There's snow littering his hat and his shoulders, and he pulls his arms closer to his body. Beauty of the snow be damned, he hates the cold. He's old, and the sharp weather makes his joints ache, and goddamn it all, he's a _Southerner_ ; home was never this cold, especially not to the point where there was snow.

The time he'd seen the snow—at least, the only time before the world had completely turned upside down—he had been too far from home, huddled around a fire sharing a single, worn blanket.

"Do tell," Billy answers slowly, copying a phrase he's heard Goodnight say often, likely glad Goodnight has moved on finally from griping about the temperature. Out of the two, Billy, with his quiet displeasure, weathers the cold much better, though his scowl is deeper than usual. They're both ready to be boarded up somewhere out of the wind with a mug of something steaming in their hands.

"General Philip Kearny led Union forces there. Took a bullet through the hip that left through his shoulder, and he died before we could find out if Lincoln was going to replace McClellan with him. One of the worst storms I've ever been in finally put a halt to the fighting there. Lucky for them, too," Goodnight adds. Chantilly had been the beginning of true hell, but at the time, he'd been almost fond of the area for sounding like it should be a plantation back in Louisiana.

Ahead of them, lights twinkle in the growing dusk, and the town of Santa Fe, New Mexico, comes into view. It's not quite as warm or sunny as Goodnight would like to spend his winter, but they won't be completely freezing here, and if they run low on funds, more shouldn't be hard to come by. The railroad is also within their reach should they decide to go farther south, though they usually avoid trains, given Billy's history.

Once, for a brief time, Santa Fe had flown a Rebel flag. "Ol' General Kearny had an uncle who fought here," he says, "back in the war with Mexico."

The war with Mexico, where his grandfather had fought and where his grandfather had reaped a reputation to uphold. The war with Mexico, where more problems were gained than solved.

* * *

Sam pulled his coat tighter around him and watched the cloud puff from his mouth as he exhaled. Mr. Goodnight was a lot of things, but he'd never thought senseless was one of them. Yet here they were, inspecting trees in the middle of the day, both of them toting axes on their shoulders. He'd explained in his roundabout terms why they were searching for a tree, but Sam still didn't quite understand.

"What do you think about this one?" Mr. Goodnight expected the fir with his hands on his hips, one jutted to the side and eyes narrowed in thought. He didn't wait for Sam's response before he shook his head. "No, this one is not fitting at all, too scrawny to sit there in the parlor. Our tree needs to be a belle too."

Sam wanted to tell him that it would not be scrawny once they were getting it back to the house, but he kept his mouth shut and let him keep looking.

* * *

As irritable as she was, it could not be said that Valentine was not a dedicated worker when she put her mind to something. Goodnight had given her a bowl of cranberries, a needle, and thread, and told her to string the berries, and while she'd told him he didn't have the sense God gave a goose, she'd plopped down in front of the fireplace to hog the warmth and done as he'd asked…or commanded, but he'd done so nicely. In the length of time since then, she had a trail of cranberries spanning across the floor and was currently threading the berries one right after the other. Augusta lounged the length of the sofa, stringing her own bowl of popped corn and feeding it onto the floor; she'd been kinder than Valentine in her response but uncertain nonetheless, and the glance she'd given him from beneath her lashes hadn't gone unnoticed. But if she'd been asked her to do it, then by golly, Augusta would do it.

"Why am I doing this again," Valentine asked, smirking but not saying a word when she glanced at Goodnight and Beau.

"We have to decorate the tree Goody was kind enough to bring us," Mrs. Robicheaux replied with only mild mockery, smirking while she knitted, and Valentine turned up her nose at the fir tree standing in the corner of the parlor, which Goodnight did not appreciate. He and Sam had spent a good half hour trying to get the thing from the wagon to the parlor, and it was all because Goodnight wanted to show them how they'd celebrated in Charleston. The least they could do was not act like he'd tracked mud all over their clean floors.

"How about we get this done before the terrors arrive," Augusta sighed, referring to her sisters, who were coming to Foxsong to celebrate Christmas and Valentine's wedding. "And don't worry, Val, we'll have it out of here before the wedding."

"Perhaps I'd like to show off our decorations," Goodnight teased, though he knew good and well that was a battle he'd already lost. Christmas pacified Valentine into affability, but even Christmas would not put her in a good enough mood to let any part of her wedding be threatened.

"Then you may give them a tour of the paintings," Augusta quipped back. Goodnight opened his mouth to tell her most of the guests had already seen their paintings, but he closed it when she gave him a look that said, _I have enough to worry about without Val fussing over a_ tree _._

"Yes ma'am," he agreed with a smile, which Augusta mirrored before quietly returning to her work. Watching her, Goodnight knew that, after days spent fretting over Valentine's wedding and her sisters, she was glad to have a mind-numbing task.

Which meant that Goodnight probably should not have done what he did.

He was playing with Beau on the floor, loading and unloading all his little wooden animals from their ark, pushing the silver train with Beau's name on it around, making sure he didn't fall off the rocking horse—Augusta had yet to ever be violent, but he was not going to test his luck—when his son took one look at Augusta's garland and crawled over to it. He had done the same to his Aunt Valentine's, but she had shooed him away before he caused any harm. With no regard for what his mother was doing, Beau seated himself under the garland, and before Goodnight could stop him, ripped off a piece of corn and popped it into his mouth. With a grimace and a lunge for Beau, Goodnight waited for Augusta to say something, but she didn't seem to notice her son merrily chomping on her work.

Beau grinned up at him, and Goodnight couldn't help but smile…or blame Beau for wanting a taste.

Leaning against the sofa, Goodnight situated Beau in his lap, picking off one piece for Beau and one piece for himself, while Augusta hummed "Silent Night" softly, unaware that her husband and son were making a Penelope of her. Beau snatched each piece with a slimy, chubby hand, and Mrs. Robicheaux, catching Goodnight's eye, merely smirked again and kept knitting.

When Goodnight held out the next piece to Beau, his son turned his rosy little face up to him with an expression that made Goodnight think Beau knew they were not behaving, and he couldn't help but chuckle and kiss the top of his head.

"You know, I really don't—" Augusta's voice snapped Goodnight out of his moment with Beau, and both glanced up with wide eyes to find her slack-jawed and glaring at them. "Hey!"

She pulled the garland from their grip, eliciting a scowl from Beau, to which she said, "Oh, don't you give me that look, Beauregard Robicheaux. You two…"

Unaccustomed to hearing his mother scold him even gently, Beau whipped his head around as if to ask Goodnight for help, though he could only shrug. "Son, I'm in as much trouble as you."

* * *

The other two families of the Evercreech sisters, as well as their parents, had already arrived and settled themselves when the sleek black Saucier carriage finally rumbled down the lane and up to Foxsong's entrance. With Oceane and Anastasie, as well as all their children, in the house and Valentine seated at the piano, none of them knew the final sister had arrived until she swayed into the parlor with an expression that read she would rather be in Dante's final circle than having to spend the holiday with her family. Half a step behind her trotted Dorian, looking a mix of frustrated and harried, one hand holding onto their older daughter and carrying the younger in his other arm. Her gaze sweeping over the room and effectively silencing it, Salome's eyes landed on the tree, and her eyebrow shot up as she scowled.

Goodnight and Augusta had risen to greet them, but Goodnight, with his hand stuck out to shake Dorian's, was stopped in his tracks by Salome's icy, "Augusta, there's a tree in your parlor."

She could have very well have been saying, "Augusta, get this filth off me."

As Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, Salome rounded on him accusingly. "You…" And with that, she was sweeping from the room, Dorian giving them an apologetic look, and she called over her shoulder, "Mammy will show me to a room."

While the room sat in silence, adjusting themselves to Salome's presence, Goodnight caught Valentine's eye, and, smirking, she mouthed, _Such a joy._ Goodnight mouthed back for her to stop it, and she giggled to herself, spinning on the bench to face the piano again. Next to him, Augusta sighed, and he put a hand on the small of her back to guide her to where they'd been seated on the sofa. "Darlin', I don't think she liked our tree."

"Goody, I'm not sure _I_ like our…parlor tree," Augusta conceded. Goodnight flopped onto the sofa and threw his hands into the air.

"This is the thanks I get for trying to bring a little culture into the house."

Augusta frowned, and in her eyes, he read, _You didn't bring culture, silly, you brought a tree._

"Well, Goody, I like the parlor tree," Valentine said over her shoulder. "If Salome doesn't like it, maybe she won't come in here."

"Stop it, Val," he said, but not before he could wipe the smile off his face; he didn't feel half as bad when Augusta hummed in amusement.

Valentine tossed her pretty head, and Goodnight swore he heard her mutter under her breath, "If only Oceane didn't like it."

* * *

Like usual, Ames and Mathilde made themselves heard before they were seen, arriving just before dinner with enough ruckus to overshadow the three sisters. How they'd been able to be convinced to attend Christmas eve dinner with the Evercreech family was beside Goodnight, but he expected Augusta hadn't told Mathilde that her family would be in attendance, and judging by the look on the other couple's faces when they opened the door, his theory was probably right.

"Augusta, you fibber, I can hear them," Mathilde fussed in the doorway, nose flaring, and she held Augusta at arm's length when Augusta tried to hug her.

"I don't know how—"

"You said they wouldn't be here, Augusta, and I can hear them," Mathilde insisted.

"We should be more worried if we couldn't hear them. And besides, we had to have you here. It isn't Christmas without family." Mathilde's scowl wavered until she gave in and hugged her friend, muttering something into Augusta's ear that made her tip her head back with laughter and kiss Mathilde's cheek.

Behind his wife, Ames hopped from foot to foot, and when a sudden gust of wind threatened to blow off his hat, he hurriedly snatched at it with one hand and pulled his coat, which was oddly misshapen and wiggling, tighter around him. "Damn it, Mattie, can you go inside? I'm growing icicles on my—"

"Yes, yes, hush up," Mathilde snapped playfully, though she moved aside to let him in. They'd no sooner closed the door than she was tugging at his arm. "Oh! Show them our gift, Ames."

"I'm trying," Ames huffed, though he was focused more on lighting his cigar. Goodnight watched him fumble, hands gloved, with his match before he took it from him and struck it. Ames nodded his thanks, and then set about to removing his layers. He peeled off his gloves and scarf, then his overcoat, and Augusta cried out in surprise.

"Ames!" she gasped as a furry little head popped out of Ames's vest. Shaking itself off, velvety red ears flopping erratically, it turned its droopy eyes up to Ames as if to ask what had happened.

"Isn't he pretty? Thought he'd make a perfect gift for Beau—look, we wrapped him up and everything," Ames chattered as he pulled the puppy from his vest to show off the silver bow they'd tied around its neck.

While his wife cooed at the gift, coddling it to her chest, Goodnight rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Only Ames would have thought a puppy would make an ideal gift for a child who still couldn't get the hang of walking on his own and whose vocabulary mainly consisted of "no" and "Mama." He looked back to the puppy, glancing sleepily around the foyer of Foxsong, and couldn't help but smile at its little wrinkled face and oversized feet, remembering his father's hound that he'd grown up with.

"We do only have hunting dogs, Goody, and he looks just like an Othello," Augusta said when she caught his eye, her big eyes turned up to him imploringly, and Goodnight knew he was sunk. He reached out to scratch the floppy ears; those had always been his favorite part of a hound.

"One of these days I'm going to learn to say no to you," Goodnight muttered, going with a playful scowl to fetch Beau.

* * *

Billy is good at many things. He can nurse anything back from the brink of death, and when they have the time, ingredients, and good fortune, he makes a mean bowl of chili—though it's nothing in comparison to the jambalaya that Goodnight occasionally whips up, in his personal opinion. He can walk like a ghost and hit a target with his knife before anyone realizes it's left his hand. But one thing Billy is not good at? Any sort of card game.

Hell, he can't even hold them right.

Despite being hopeless, Billy never flat-out refuses to play even though Goodnight knows there are plenty of other things that he'd likely rather be doing, but on winter nights like these, when their options are to stay inside or catch frostbite, Billy is usually a bit more willing to play.

Billy lays on his side across the bed, propped up on his elbow and every pillow in the room, while Goodnight sprawls diagonally across the bed and rests against Billy's legs, the cards in the space between them, both men keeping warm with sweet cider from the little landlady and the blankets stolen from the other bed. Perhaps it's the cider—Billy would drink the town dry of it if he had the money—but the younger man is in high spirits. It could also be that he's won a game.

His pair, the last one available, slaps onto the bed, and Billy says something that sounds like he's congratulating himself in Korean. Goodnight can't help but laugh, tossing down his joker, and leans his head back on Billy's legs.

"Let's play again," Billy insists with a giant grin, already gathering up the cards in his awkward hands.

"Play again? Are you sure you'd like to test your luck? That makes one in…let's see, the last time you won was back in Flatlake, and that was in March—"

Billy slams the deck down in front of Goodnight so that he can shuffle—the last time Billy did it, they'd lost two cards and ripped another—still smiling away. "What else are we going to do?"

"I don't know about you, Mr. Rocks, but 'm content right here."

"Goody," Billy growls, still with a smirk, "I'll shuffle these cards if you don't sit up."

Goodnight stretches his arms above his head, shoulder popping loudly—he's really getting too old—and then raises himself back up. "You're leaving me with no other option, then, Billy."

* * *

When Goodnight went to fetch a bottle of cognac, he did not expect to find the library occupied. His nephew Theodore, Anastasie's oldest, stood in front of one of the tall shelves, fingers skimming over each of the books so lightly it was as if he was afraid they would catch fire at his touch. He jumped when he heard Goodnight enter, jerking his hand back violently as if the books really had caught fire.

"Son, you keep jumping like that, and people are going to think you're up to no good," Goodnight said, paused in the doorway and unable to suppress a grin. "What are you doing in here? We're all playing games in the parlor."

Not that he could blame the boy from wanting to escape his aunts.

"S-sorry, Uncle Goodnight. My parents don't like to read, and you just have more books than I've ever seen," Theodore stammered, dropping his gaze but still trying to look at the shelves.

Of course they didn't like to read. Anastasie was as dull as paint. If she hadn't been so comely, he would have thought she was altogether forgettable, and her husband's idea of a riveting conversation topic was economics; a book would do them both some good. But her son was old enough that he could still be saved from her clutches. Grin widening, Goodnight crossed to where the boy was, saying, "You like to read?"

"When I can," he answered, turning his face back up with a mix of hesitation and wonder.

 _He has a reader's description,_ Goodnight thought, taking in the boy's owlish eyes behind a pair of octagonal eyeglasses and waifish stature. He moved to a different shelf and scanned the contents. "Have you read any Mother Goose?"

"I don't know who that is."

Goodnight started to pull the book from its place when he thought about Theodore, pale and looking like he was likely subjected to bedrest on a regular basis. He imagined him confined to his bed, watching through the window as his brothers played with neighboring children, acting out scenes of Indian raids or fighting off alligators in the backyard bayou. No, Mother Goose would not do. "I have a better idea. Perhaps you've heard of Defoe?"

Again, Theodore shook his head, and Goodnight smiled to himself as he picked the book he wanted, feeling very clever. "This is _Robinson Crusoe._ It was a favorite both myself and your Aunt Augusta when we were growing up."

"Aunt Augusta," Theodore breathed, eyes widening as he looked up at Goodnight with nothing less than awe. "Aunt Augusta reads?"

"Why do you think I married her?" If Augusta hadn't been the favorite aunt already, she had certainly earned the title now. Goodnight held out the book, which Theodore hesitated to take. "Go on, now, I doubt you could hurt it."

"I don't know if I can finish it by tomorrow."

"Well, there's thirteen days before Epiphany. Think you can finish it by then?"

"Thank you, Uncle Goodnight," he whispered, still with the book held out in front of him.

"I think we're acquainted enough that I can be Uncle Goody, don't you? I don't see any reason why we can't speak like men." At Theodore's beaming smile, which pushed his glasses further up his nose, Goodnight patted his shoulder and moved to get the bottle of cognac from the desk. "Now let's get back to the party. We wouldn't want to miss any of your Aunt Oceane's antics, now would we?"

As he closed the door behind them, Goodnight couldn't help but ask, "Theodore, what do you think of our Christmas tree?"

"That thing in the parlor?"

* * *

As the adults tried to have a civil, decent conversation, the children had been playing noisily in the corner of the parlor with Othello, and their sudden silence was ostensibly suspicious. Anastasie's boys were grimacing and wide-eyed, their cousin Posie looking pointedly at the floor, and Beau couldn't have cared less with what was going on, his arms around Othello's neck while the puppy squirmed, lapping at his chin. Without a word, every adult studied their offspring, but nothing seemed out of place.

But it didn't come as a great surprise when Theodore's face was bare.

"Where are your eyeglasses," Anastasie asked, raising her head to look down her nose, suddenly losing just a bit of her beauty. She had mastered the art of passivity and knew just how to weild it to make her recipient feel terrible, but it seemed that even she grew annoyed by her skill until it built up and her aggressiveness came tumbling out at once. And if it hadn't been building all night…Bracing for the explosion, Goodnight gripped his glass of liquour tighter and glanced to Augusta, who closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

"W-we—they f-f-fell," he stammered, and Goodnight likened the boy to a turtle drawing back in its shell at the sign of danger. He sent his best wishes.

And then came the explosion.

"You've broken them, haven't you? Théodore, that's the second pair! When are you going to learn to be more responsible with your things, or are you just too daft to understand—"

"Ana," Augusta scolded without much harshness, tensing like everyone else at her sister's words, holding out her arm to Theodore. "That's enough!"

"Honestly. There's no need to be a bitch about," Salome snapped, tossing her head, her grey eyes flashing in triumph. She'd been too mild since her arrival, and while she would have undoubtedly liked to have lashed out at Oceane, the opportunity to fight had just fallen right on the floor and she would not be picky.

"Sal…" Dorian scolded, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had neither the energy nor patience to deal with another Evercreech sister argument.

"I beg your pardon," Anastasie barked, now on the defensive, scowling between Salome and Augusta. "We all know the only bitch here is you, Sal—"

"Oh, I won't deny it," Salome shrugged offhandedly, a self-righteous smirk on her beautiful lips. Salome would never allow anyone the satisfaction of insulting her.

Face twisting nastily, Anastasie opened her mouth with what could only be another scalding remark, but Augusta cried, "I said enough! There are children here, and it's Christmas, for heaven's sake. Peace and good will, you two. Now Ana, I think you made your message perfectly clear, and I didn't need your help, Sal."

Salome had the gall to look offended.

Goodnight watched with fondness as his wife petted the nape of her oldest nephew's neck, wiping away his tears with her other hand, and decided the ordeal had gone on long enough.

"He's my son," Anastasie insisted, as if that changed things.

"And you're in my house," Goodnight said, firm but quiet, in complete opposition to the strident voices the women had utilized. All heads swiveled to him. "Son, come here and bring me your eyeglasses."

Reluctantly, Theodore left his aunt's side and shuffled over to where his discarded glasses still lay, and Goodnight urged gently, "Go on, get the lead out of your boots. I'm not mad."

He sat down on the sofa next to Augusta and held the glasses up to his face. The right lens had a mighty fine crack running up the side, and the bridge of the nose was warped. "Well, son, it looks like we'll be able to smooth them back out, but you'll have to wait on the lens. Now dry your eyes, there's no harm done."

"No harm done," Anastasie scoffed, and Goodnight looked over his nephew's shoulder to her.

"I'd rather have something wrong with the spectacles than his eye, wouldn't you? If my mama had lectured me over every little thing I broke, I reckon she'd still be going. He's a boy, Anastasie, and breaking things is what boys do best. I guarantee you that the minute I start caring about any of the things in this house will be the minute Beau breaks it."

Though nothing else was said, Anastasie glowered at him, and Salome glowered at Anastasie, and Augusta stared down Oceane as though daring her to make a peep. Theodore sniffed and took back his eyeglasses.

"Well. I do believe it is story time, Aggie," Ames said, glacing around the room with an expression that said he was very much enjoying the show indeed. Though it was a relief to have a change in subject, Goodnight thought it was only because his friend enjoyed Augusta's stories more than he did.

With a grateful glance towards him, Augusta shot to her feet and skittered towards a side table where a familiar thin book lay, its cover worn and beloved. "Thank you, Ames, that's a grand idea. I know this isn't an original, but this is my Christmas favorite," Augusta said, settling onto the sofa. She fixed her skirts about her, and the children nestled at her feet, wide-eyed and eager, knowing their aunt's claim to fame.

She flipped open the book, cleared her throat quietly, and in her narrator's voice read, "'Stave One. Marley was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.'"

* * *

When Goodnight passed through the boudoir to Augusta's room that evening, his wife was scowling at her reflection in the vanity, still completely dressed and with her hair pinned up. Augusta had sent Mammy away just after dinner since it was Christmas, and Goodnight had readied himself for bed under the assumption that Augusta was doing the same in her room. Yet there she was, not even a single pin released from her hair. "You haven't made any headway at all."

"I just can't believe she did that," she muttered without paying him any mind, and, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, he didn't know whether to be amused or inclined to agree with her over Anastasie's outburst. "She was always fussy and particular, but she was never downright cruel. And honestly, even Salome agreed it was too far. Oh, they make me so _angry_. Christmas is a time for family, but why would anyone want to be with them when they act that way? Why do I even invite them into our home if they're just going to be pains in our necks? I never want them here again, Goody, that's for sure. After the wedding, they are _not_ coming back."

"You need some help with your dress?"

Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, Augusta spun on her stool with her mouth pressed in a thin line, and her hands flew up to her hips. "And just _what_ is your hurry about," she huffed, but it lacked anger with him, and his jaw trembled in attempt not to laugh at her, lest he make her truly mad. He moved to stand behind her.

"Down girl," Goodnight murmured into her ear with a chuckle, kissing her temple as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. When Augusta didn't seem pacified by his actions, he lowered his lips from her temple to her jaw. "Lower your hackles, darlin'. There's no need for you to be in such a tizzy anymore."

She hummed in reply, craning her neck to give him better access, and then said, "Goody? I like the parlor tree you brought."

Goodnight kissed her square on the lips before he reached to let down her hair. "Merry Christmas, Gus."

* * *

"Augusta was good at cards."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, hell yeah, best cheater our side of the Mississippi," Goodnight scoffs, feeling rather than seeing Billy's smile. Or maybe he just knows it's there. He turns over an ace and moves it above the rest of his piles, oddly content with his game of Patience against Billy's legs. Billy had lost the next four games and retired before he owed Goodnight an entire pack of cigarettes, and now he has resigned to watching Goodnight play. "She could count them, and when she didn't do that, you'd never see her slip a card up her sleeve. But the thing is, she was so good at cards that when she won, we didn't know if she'd cheated or not. Part of the game was trying to catch her red-handed."

At his next thought, he chuckles lowly. "Ames always tried to cheat too, but, well, Gus was a bit brighter than him."

Goodnight observes the cards in front of him and contemplates his next move while Billy downs the last bit of the cider.

Nineteen years ago, if someone had told Goodnight that eventually he would be spending winters playing cards in nameless boarding houses with a Korean man, he would have laughed in their face and thought they were out of their mind. How could they ever say such a thing when he had a pretty little wife and hearty son and a beautiful estate? Nestled by the fire, reading to his children or grandchildren, snug in wool bedclothes and tucked under a pile of quilts—that was the only way he'd ever spend his winters.

And yet here he is, and he thinks, glancing up to find Billy interestedly watching the cards, that if he can't spend his winters like he imagined, this isn't a bad way to spend them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Dates that might be useful:  
** **Oregon becomes a state-February 14, 1859  
** **Nine months after Christmas-Late September  
** **John Brown's Raid-October 16-18, 1859**

 **The newspaper article they read later comes from the New Orleans Daily Crescent on October 17, 1859.**

 **Billy: Spring-early Summer 1878  
** **Augusta: February 15, 1859-October 17, 1859**

Goodnight had always enjoyed the spring, with its bright new flowers and warmer air. Winter's passing had once brought Mardi Gras and Easter in the city, with the promise of barbecues and garden parties at home. Summers and autumns had brought more work, and winter was always dreadful, but spring—spring was light and worthy of song.

Laden with their supplies, Goodnight, whistling merrily, steps onto the porch of the general store and when Billy isn't waiting for him outside, glances up and down the street for his partner. The street is empty, save for the dust that the breeze keeps stirring. With no small feeling of panic, Goodnight bounces down the two stairs and turns the corner of the store to head back towards the main part of town, abandoning his whistling. There have been plenty of unfortunate times in the past where Billy has been missing. After spending three months in Santa Fe, he wouldn't be surprised if Billy had made a few enemies while Goodnight had his back turned, and bad things tended to happen when Billy made enemies.

 _Blasted fool probably goaded them,_ he thinks, and then feels guilty for blaming Billy—not that the other man hadn't given him reason in the past to assume such things. Billy always teases Goodnight for being flashy, but Goodnight would be damned if he said Billy wasn't a peacock himself, always flashing his knives and riling people up for the fun of getting under their skin.

He finds Billy just around the corner, stooped down with a small, scrappy little dog hunkered at his feet, head ducked but tail wagging as Billy scratches its back. What little fur it has stands on end and does no good to hide every bone in the dog's body. There are no signs of the horses, and judging from the way Billy doesn't even acknowledge Goodnight, he doubts the younger man even cares where they are.

"Do you still have possession of our steeds?"

Billy's head whips around to face Goodnight. He jerks his head, "Round back."

Goodnight returns with their horses to the sight of Billy, now seated on the ground and reclined against the building, dog in his lap, digging in his coat pocket for a bit of old jerky, which is gone in the time it takes for a smile to flash across Billy's lips. "Billy, you keep feeding that thing, and I'm going to have to get more supplies."

"He's too skinny," Billy replies simply, and Goodnight scoffs, rolling his eyes. As if Billy has the right to call anyone skinny.

"Ready to head out," he asks, turning his back to Billy as he checks their bags and mounts. He doesn't pay any mind to Billy rummaging about in his own bags before he put his foot in the stirrup.

000

When Goodnight caught Augusta's eye but went straight to the library, he knew she would follow quickly. No sooner had he opened the desk drawer did she appear in the doorway, knocking gently on the frame. "What happened? How did it go?"

What happened? They had planned mutiny on their country, that's what had happened, and to top it off, they'd been much too interested in Augusta. Goodnight poured an impressive glass of the sherry from his desk, sloshing a bit out of the glass, and downed half of it in one gulp, the burn doing little to take his mind away from the evening. "Goddamned fools the lot of them, Augusta, you'd never believe it."

"Try me," she said, moving into the room and stepping behind him to slip off his coat. She tossed it over her arm and then leaned against the desk while Goodnight sat down. "What was so bad about this gathering?"

"Ansel Delacroix." Goodnight swallowed the other half of his glass, glad for the burn; he told himself to focus on it instead of that no good tobacco farmer. Augusta's lips quivered, and by trying to hide a smile, she ended up looking more like she was pouting. Goodnight shot her a look, and she kept her teasing to herself.

"Sonovabitch didn't say a word to me until he asked about you. 'How's your wife, Goody? It's a shame you didn't bring her with you.' Can you believe that? He had the gall to call me _Goody_ , Augusta. And what would you have possibly done at that kind of gathering? Patted our heads and said how proud you are? Served us tea? You're not a goddamned maid, you're Augusta goddamned _Robicheaux_." At this, Augusta grinned and shook her head, and Goodnight's scowl deepened. "It isn't funny, Gus. I don't like him."

"Well I'm not chiding you for that because I don't like him either. I just hardly think that qualifies for you to act like a jealous schoolboy," Augusta said, taking his hand in hers.

Goodnight scoffed indignantly; him a jealous schoolboy, indeed. It made perfect sense for him to be more than ruffled by another man's attention to his wife. "He used to call on you, Gus, I know he did."

"He didn't," Augusta insisted, and at Goodnight's disbelief, she sighed. "He didn't, Goody, Hattie and Mathilde made sure of that. I entertained him at parties and such, but that was before you came into the picture. I never would have married him, that's for sure. He made me…uncomfortable, always on edge. His eyes were too funny. Besides, he's married now."

"That doesn't mean anything to some people," Goodnight grumbled, and poured another glass in attempt to talk himself out of telling her what else had happened, but her thumb slowly rubbing across his knuckles wore him down. "Did we get a paper today?"

Augusta nodded and pried the glass from his hand. "Said Oregon was admitted to the Union. Isn't that exciting? Thirty-three states now."

"As a free state. Lord, that had them in a tizzy. They swear up and down the government is taking away our rights, and Ansel Delacroix—don't give me that look, Gus—sat there and tried to convince us that we needed to be our own country. Said our parish had enough strong men to lead the movement. He's out of his mind if he thinks one parish can convince the entire South to secede."

It was becoming a regular topic of conversation, war and secession, at balls and weddings and dinners, and Goodnight was growing sick of it. Ansel and Micah Magee had brought up war at Valentine's wedding, causing Mrs. Robicheaux to add her opinion about Goodnight fighting, since her father had left such a reputation to be upheld; Goodnight had thought Augusta would strangle them then. Now the men of distinction were meeting together as though they had any sort of power—and for the most part, they unfortunately did.

"Oh, who cares what Ansel Delacroix thinks? He's half delusional, and anyone with a lick of sense knows that," Augusta said quietly after a moment, with her soft, closed-lip smile, effectively calming Goodnight more than the sherry had.

He smiled back at her and took a moment to bask in her company after the frustrating day away, noting the circles under her eyes. As he brushed back a stray curl, Goodnight asked, "Have you been sick today?"

"I'm sick every day."

"Gus—"

Augusta sighed, settling onto his knee when he held out his arms, and kissed his cheek. "I feel better than yesterday."

"Have you been working today?"

"Of course," she chided, "there's work to be done. I couldn't help with the bread because the smell made me sick too, and Beau and Othello knocked over the water for laundry. That didn't make me sick, just frustrated. Mammy reminded me of Sal's invitation to dinner, but that made me sick because I'm still mad at her from Christmas."

"You're going to have to accept at some point," Goodnight murmured into her shoulder. Nearly a month ago, Salome had invited them to dinner, but every time someone brought it up, Augusta neatly differed the conversation elsewhere. She refused to accept, saying that if they went, they'd be obligated to return the invitation, and she did not want any of her sisters in her home again.

"I'm much cleverer than you give me credit for, Goody, and I have plenty of excuses. We can't go now because who knows when I'll get sick, and by the time I stop that, I'll be too big to be seen out of the house, and it'll be another six weeks after the baby before I can go out again."

"Titus," Goodnight suggested suddenly, changing the subject but knowing Augusta would follow; she was always able to follow his train of thought. To try to distract himself on the ride home, he'd been racking his brain his brain for what Augusta called their 'late Christmas present.'

"Titus Robicheaux? Oh stars, no, that sounds horrible." Her rebuke was worth it just to watch her head tip back as she laughed, the lovely sound. Goodnight let a wide smile spread across his face, which he kept buried in her shoulder.

"Ishmael?"

Her brow knitting together, Augusta's lips moved silently as she played with the name, and eventually, she shrugged. "You're getting better with names, but I won't agree to it yet. And you only keep suggesting boys' names."

"I think it's going to be a boy," he said, finally meeting her eye. The look she gave him said she thought he was being silly, but she didn't say anything aloud.

000

"Oh, Billy, goddamn it."

The corners of Billy's lips turn up just enough for him to come across as too self-satisfied, but he can't help himself. He puts the dog on the ground and buckles his bag, then waits patiently for whatever Goodnight has to say. The Southerner is standing with his hands on his hips, half a snarl on his face as he regards the mutt Billy stowed away.

"Billy… Am I going to have to start making you turn out your pockets?"

With the look on his face paired with the tone of his voice, Billy can see now that Goodnight had once been a father, even if it had been for a brief time long ago. He had probably been used to making sure pockets were empty at the end of the day, having been a boy himself and knowing just how much could fit inside.

But when Billy had spotted the dog, more bones than skin and fur combined, and it had come warily to him, trusting him even though it seemed to be against its better judgement, Billy knew he couldn't just leave it to starve; the least he could do was fatten it up a little and find someone who would take it.

Because that's just what Billy does. He stumbles on scraggly, hurting creatures, and he can't resist helping them. Sometimes, like now, that means sharing food, and sometimes…it just means being.

Goodnight rolls his eyes and rubs his face. He sets about to unloading his horse, and Billy thinks he mutters something about being 'too old for this.' With Goodnight's back turned to him, Billy lets his smirk widen; it seems the dog will be staying. He slips it another piece of jerky, as he'd been doing the entire ride when Goodnight was too engrossed by his own chattering to notice.

"What's its name?" Goodnight asks when they're settling in for the night.

The dog glances up at Billy as if it knows it's being talked about and wags its tail when it catches Billy's eye. It's quite ugly and stinks, and it's stayed under Billy's feet the entire night except for the two times it got under Goodnight's and tripped him, but Billy already has a hint of attachment towards it.

"Rocky."

Goodnight's lips twitch for the first time all evening, and he tosses a bit of the pork they'd had for dinner at the dog.

000

A few weeks pass, and then a few more until it's the end of April before Billy has Rocky looking like a living dog again, and not like he'd dug it out of a grave. His ribs disappear, and after a few trips to the creek, he loses the majority of his smell. His fur comes back _mostly._ He looks better than he did when they left Santa Fe, though, so Billy thinks that counts for something, even though Goodnight still says he won't be winning any beauty contests.

Billy wakes to find Rocky as his only companion.

When his brain registers this information, he sits up immediately, earning a dirty look from Rocky, but the look loses its effect because of his chest is already tightening with panic. Goodnight's horse is gone, along with his packs and bedroll, and the fire is dying, and—

He shouldn't have slept so well. He should have asked that they take watches, but Billy had felt so comfortable that he didn't think they needed to. And that's the problem, he thinks. He shouldn't have gotten so damn _comfortable_.

 _It's the end of April,_ Billy tells himself, fingers shaking as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and fumbles with the match. Goodnight is supposed to be the one who needs these to function, and under normal circumstances, he is. But normal circumstances mean Goodnight and Billy together, and now Billy is alone. _It's the end of April, maybe today is the day._

Billy loses track of the days and dates because they hold no meaning to him, but Goodnight has all these special little anniversaries for everything. Maybe today is _that day,_ and Goodnight has just gone to clear his head. Billy tells himself over and over that's all it is. He tells himself over and over that Goodnight _always comes back,_ repeats that phrase in his mind like a mantra.

One day he knows Goodnight just won't come back. He'll wise up and realize he could be living well in an actual house with better company if he wasn't always having to take care of Billy. One day Goodnight will wise the hell up and get the hell out, and Billy will be right back where he started: alone, on the run, always the recipient of snarls.

 _Goodnight always comes back._

He hugs his knees and puffs furiously on his cigarette.

 _Goodnight always comes back._

Rocky licks his hand, and if he hadn't watched him, he wouldn't have even realized it.

 _Goodnight always comes back._

He takes one last drag before he hears hoofbeats, and a moment later, there's a soft, scratchy voice singing, "It matters little now, Lorena, the past is in the eternal past."

Billy doesn't look over his shoulder, but he doesn't need to. His shoulders slump as he releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and he picks himself up off the ground. When Goodnight dismounts, Billy catches his gaze for the briefest moment, finding nothing but pain and shame in the Southerner's sharp blue eyes.

They don't say a word about it.

000

"Are you sure this is enough? We could still go up to New—"

With a sigh, Augusta turned her big eyes up to Goodnight, the smirk on her lips saying, _I_ told _you, Goody._ Aloud, she said, "I promise this all I want: you and Beau."

Per Augusta's request, they had trekked down to the creek, where Beau now played merrily, under the watchful eye of his parents, who were seated under the willow, the shade a relief from the warm spring day. Goodnight had tried convincing Augusta since Easter that they should spend their anniversary celebrating elaborately, but Augusta had tried convincing Goodnight since Easter that the best way to celebrate was quietly at home. Of course, she had won in the end, since Goodnight had yet to deny her anything. So now they relaxed by the water's edge, an empty lunch basket by their side.

"You and Beau and a whole horde of children. That's all I want," she continued softly, readjusting herself in Goodnight's hold, and he stroked her hair, warm in spots from the patches of sunlight streaming down. She ran a hand over her growing stomach, still small enough to be hidden under her dresses.

"We're working on it," Goodnight replied, hiding his smile in her hair. He could only imagine their mess of curly-haired boys playing in the water or whooping as they rode around the grounds. He would teach them all to shoot a rabbit from a half a mile away, and Augusta would make sure they all knew how to dance with a lady, and the parish would always remark on how well-spoken and charming the Robicheaux boys were.

After giving away Valentine at her wedding, Goodnight had decided he didn't want any girls. If he did have daughters, they'd join a convent the moment boys started to realize they were pretty—which of course they would be, with their mama and the Robicheaux name.

"Mama! Mama, bug! Bug! Big bug," Beau screeched, snapping them out of their quiet conversation to find their son looking at the creek with nothing short of pure joy. His little hands waved wildly as he struggled to contain his excitement. With that, one hand shot into the water and withdrew a crayfish, and he clomped through the water over to where his parents were.

"Oh, Beau, you have a crawdad! Come here and show us," Augusta called, her eyes widening, more probably from nerves than excitement. Aside, she said, "Goody, get it from him before he gets pinched."

Dripping water onto Augusta's worn green blanket, Beau thrust his hand out, displaying his catch. How he'd managed to snatch the thing so skillfully was beyond Goodnight, but if it was a bug—or what he thought was a bug—Beau would catch it.

"Bug," Beau asked when Augusta called it a crawdad again, scowling at his crayfish as though it had betrayed him. "Bug?"

"Mudbug," Goodnight said, and Augusta shot him a grateful look. It pacified Beau, and he went back to smiling. Goodnight put the crayfish in their basket and then stood, wiping his hands on his pants. "If we turn some more rocks over, we'll probably find plenty of these. Maybe your mama will be kind enough to cook them for dinner."

"Oh, I doubt it has anything to do with my kindness. You know I can't cook anything that doesn't have flour and sugar," Augusta teased, but she laughed softly, her head tipping to the side. Discarding his boots and stockings, Goodnight kissed her once as he followed Beau to the creek.

Later, when the sun set, when Goodnight carried a basket of crayfish in one hand and a sleeping Beau on his back and listened to Augusta hum a familiar French folk song, he couldn't help but think that even without the wine and jewels, it hadn't been a bad way to celebrate two years of marriage.

000

Somewhere in Wyoming Billy's need to help kicks in again.

While Goodnight works his charm on the crowd, Billy leans against the fence and lazily pulls out a cigarette. No matter how many times he's seen it, he can't help but admire Goodnight's way with words, how he can gather a crowd and work Billy up until they have no other option but to think Goodnight is lying and take the bait. But then again, they haven't realized who Goodnight is yet. They'll believe him when they know his name because only someone of such skill could ever be the Angel of Death's travelling companion.

Billy hides his smile behind his hand as he lights his cigarette. If Goodnight isn't careful, he's going to have them run out of town before the show even starts.

He waves out his match and glances up to find a group of schoolchildren running over to see what the commotion could be. The scrawny little boy in front peers up at the debonair stranger with the pretty words, his eyes filled with anticipation and wonder behind his glasses. Billy watches as the other children gather, and the bespectacled boy gets pushed to the back. Removing the cigarette from his lips, Billy scowls at the children; they'll be bullies when they grow up.

When they finally have their challenge set, Billy pushes off the rail and takes his stance.

And just before he whips his gun from its holster, he winks at the bespectacled boy.

000

After dinner, Billy steps onto the back porch of the restaurant for a bit of quiet and to escape the sneers only to find the bespectacled boy petting Rocky.

Billy stops in his tracks while he contemplates what do to. He and children…they don't have a mutual liking for each other, but he's discovered that Rocky has a neat little trick where he can detect who needs attention, and at the moment, he's slobbering all over the ground and leaning into the hand that's petting him. So Billy braces for a few slurs as he props himself up against porch railing.

"My dog seems to like you," Billy says quietly, attempting to be offhanded. For no other reason than to have something else to focus on, he strikes a match and lights a cigarette.

Instantly the boy's head whips around, his eyes wide, and he stammers, "I—I didn't know this was your dog, sir."

Billy shrugs, having no idea what to do next. Children usually aren't as mean as their parents, but he also doesn't usually seek out conversations with them. As he's racking his mind for something to say, the boy saves him the trouble. "If I'd have known it was your dog, sir, I wouldn't have petted him. It's just, you see, sir, that I was sitting out here, and he came up to me."

"Don't make excuses for petting him," Billy says, amused at the reaction. He knows he's intimidating, that's part of the act, but he never thought it would have been enough to scare children away from petting a dog. Albeit still an ugly dog, no matter how much better he looks. The boy's face drops even more, and even in the dim light, Billy can tell that his eyes are red behind his glasses. Something like a grin flickers over his lips. "He looked pretty happy to me."

Something like a grin flickers over the boy's lips too, once he realizes Billy isn't admonishing him. "I think he likes if you scratch his neck."

"He thumps his foot if you rub his stomach." And then a real grin spreads over the boy's lips, and his hand twitches as if to test the statement. Billy nods in encouragement. As Rocky rolls over, the boy glances back up to Billy with a laugh on his face. "Name's Billy Rocks."

"Jasper Moon."

They fall into a now comfortable silence, Billy smoking his cigarette and the boy making Rocky's leg thump. He's maybe ten, and Billy wonders if the boy's expression comes from being perpetually amazed by this great world, or if he just isn't terribly bright.

When the door opens next, it's Goodnight slipping outside, carrying a bottle of whiskey, his face reading that this is a happy drink. "Billy, I'd wondered—oh. I see you're making friends."

Teasing not going over Billy's head, he smirks at Goodnight and shrugs as if to say, _See, I don't need you to make my own friends._ They both know that's not exactly true, but if Goodnight is going to tease him, he's going to tease right back. "Goody, this is Jasper Moon. Jasper, this is my friend Goodnight."

"Well, you must be something special if you've attracted Billy's attention, Jasper. How do you do," Goodnight asks with a dip of his head, turning on his charm even for children. Any awe that the boy had held for Billy immediately intensifies as Goodnight speaks, but Goodnight has that effect on people. If he'd struggled to find words when Billy had addressed him, it's nothing in comparison to how he flounders now. Maybe Billy should be jealous of the way Goodnight makes friends, but all he can do is admire his effortlessness.

"Rocky likes him. That's good enough for me," Billy says, smiling around his exhale of smoke—something about the way Goodnight is at ease, the way he speaks to the boy.

"I—I saw you t-today," he stammers, swallowing hard, and even in the dark, his face goes visibly red. "You and them knives."

"Oh, Billy's real clever with those knives, isn't he?"

"I wish I could do that. But I can't do much of anything," he whispers, and then seeming to realize what he's said, turns away from them quickly.

It's not so much as what he said that bothers Billy rather than the way Goodnight takes it, his smile disappearing and face contorting into something that resembles pain; he looks ready to scoop the boy into his arms and offer reassuring words. In moments like these, it bothers Billy that Goodnight had been a father—and likely a good one at that—but now he's stuck roaming the West with him.

"I'm sure that's not true. Everyone has something they're good at," Goodnight says, moving past Billy. "I had a friend who was the laziest son of a gun there ever was. He had no use for books, didn't like to do his job much either. About all he was good for was blowing smoke rings and arguing, and if he couldn't make someone smile…well, they were probably dead. And a woman I… _knew_ —only thing she was good for was hollering, and boy, did she do an exceptional job at that, whether you wanted her to or not."

"Jasper, I've been looking all over for you. Come on in, now, and let's look over those books," cries a woman as the door slams shut, making all three heads turn. Fair hair pulled back neatly, not a single strand out of place, she has a youthful face, and a pretty one at that. Without meaning to, Billy clams up but stares, accidentally dropping his cigarette to the ground. When she catches his eye, she glances away quickly, seeming to realize she'd interrupted, and addresses Goodnight's boots. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"No harm done, ma'am. But Jasper, it was a pleasure meeting with you," Goodnight says, flashing her a warm smile. He winks at Billy as she turns away, taking the boy with her.

"Shut up, Goody," Billy grumbles, squinting at his friend. He looks down at his cigarette with a scowl; he _never_ drops things.

Goodnight feigns hurt, and Billy considers stabbing him—not enough to do damage, but enough to slice his coat. "Why, Billy, I didn't say a word."

"That won't last long."

000

"How're you, Sam," Goodnight asked when he saw the other man riding up. He wiped his brow, damp with sweat despite a surprisingly cool fall day, and leaned against the wall of the mill. One of the stones had come loose, and it'd taken half the morning to get it back in track. At the moment, Goodnight's back ached, and his little finger throbbed from where he'd smashed it, and he wanted nothing more than to take a book and his wife and son to the creek. But Sam's stoical face broke into a wide, bright smile when he got closer, and Goodnight wondered what could have happened that was so extraordinary to make him beam like that. "What's going on?"

"Miss Augusta's been asking for you up at the house, and it's high time you came," was all Sam said, mainly because Goodnight was on his horse before Sam could say anything else.

000

Under Ruth's supervision, Beau was rolling around in the yard with Othello when Goodnight arrived, and when he saw his father, he skipped about the horse so chaotically that Goodnight had no choice but to get off before Beau was trampled. He swung Beau onto his hip, making the boy's yellow curls bounce. "Are you having a good day, Beau?"

Beau smiled brightly, but Goodnight's only answer was, "Mama?"

Of course, that would have been his reply. When Beau wasn't after bugs or wrestling Othello, he always had one hand on Augusta's skirt, trotting behind her wherever she went. Goodnight kissed the top of Beau's head as he said, "That's just who I was coming to check on."

"Miss Augusta's waiting for you upstairs, sir. In her bedroom," Ruth said quietly, glancing at him with cow eyes from beneath her lashes. With a nod of thanks her way, Goodnight put Beau back on the ground, giving him a pat on the back as he told him to go play again.

Once he'd disappeared from Beau's sight, Goodnight let his panic manifest again, his stride slipping from an easy swagger to a hurried trot, and he thundered up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the hall. He expected to see someone—his mother, Mammy, a maid—but the house was strangely empty, and he thought he'd rather have to shove past everyone to get to his wife instead of worry about her and the lack of presence. He pushed back the door to Augusta's room to find his mother seated by the window, gently rocking a bassinette. He caught her eye, to which she nodded faintly.

Oh good Lord.

"Gus," Goodnight called hesitantly when he saw his wife. Propped up by a horde of pillows, her hair plastered to her face and braid disheveled, Augusta's eyes blinked open as he sat down next to her. "Did I wake you?"

"Goody, you made enough racket coming up the stairs to wake the dead," Augusta teased, extending her hand to his cheek, but he turned his face to kiss her open palm. After so long, she looked oddly deflated, and it seemed, as she ran her hand over her now flat stomach, that Augusta felt the same way. But as deflated and haggard as she looked and probably felt, her usual smile spread across her lips sleepily. "But what are you doing over here with me? Don't you want to see her?"

All at once Goodnight's stomach dropped, and he tried to swallow even though his mouth was dry. He choked out, " _Her?_ "

"Oh, please don't use that tone. Go see her," she pleaded, raising herself up on her pillows, her smile disappearing and worry etching into her features. She knew he had been wary about daughters, having found him after Valentine's wedding shooting at nails he'd put in a tree.

Mrs. Robicheaux held out a bundle of blankets, and with trembling hands, Goodnight accepted them from her, pushing back a bit of the blanket to reveal a little face.

It was nothing like seeing Beau for the first time. With his son, Goodnight could only think of all the things he would show him how to do, the tutors they would hire, everything Beau could learn, whereas now, seeing his daughter…he had the overwhelming urge to fix everything in the house that could possibly be broken or sharp or protruding.

"She—" was all he managed to say before his voice cracked, even though he wasn't sure how he would have finished the sentence anyway, not with all the thoughts in his head. She was even smaller than Beau, and he just knew she would look exactly like Augusta once she was older. Which meant she'd be terribly beautiful, and she'd attract boys like him, and he'd have to watch them come to his house to see her. Or maybe she'd be sneaking off like her mother had done; that would be even worse because it had taken every ounce of strength he had not to do anything compromising. And then one day, one of those boys would want to marry her, and he'd have to give her away, and this time he would be the _father_ of the bride instead of the brother.

He might just die in the aisle.

Already she a shock of black hair and perfectly round cheeks, and Goodnight realized that, no matter the wrinkles and redness, she didn't need to grow up to be terribly beautiful.

As he was planning a trip to New Orleans for fabric and lace and ruffles to make her every frilly dress imaginable, a droplet of water fell onto her little nose, and she cracked her eyes to show off a familiar shade of bright green.

"Oh, Gus, she looks just like you," Goodnight moaned, glad his back was to his wife as he hurriedly swiped at his eyes.

000

For the next two weeks, Goodnight spent most of his time in the house, even though it was mid-October and the height of the planting season. He entertained Augusta in bed until his wife told Mammy she'd had enough recuperating and she was getting up no matter what anyone told her, and then he'd wandered around the house, almost always holding the baby unless Augusta had taken her from him. Sometimes he'd sit in the floor with Beau and let him hold her, enjoying the way Beau smiled as though it was the most wonderful, frightening thing he'd ever experienced.

It came as a surprise to everyone at Foxsong when Ames came riding up at full speed and clomped up the front steps faster than Goodnight had ever seen him move, throwing open the door without invitation.

"Oh hell, y'all, you'd never guess what's happen—is this the new baby," Ames asked as he burst into the parlor, losing focus of whatever news he'd brought the moment he saw what Goodnight was holding.

"Well the old baby is right here," Augusta said, bouncing Beau on her lap. He promptly hopped down and ran to Ames, who swung him into his arms, and Augusta rose to greet Ames. Without caring it wasn't proper to touch another man's wife, Ames kissed her cheek.

"I hope I never count on you to deliver a dire message," Goodnight snorted, glad to see his friend since it had been nearly three weeks since their last dinner together.

"I'm plenty reliable. Right, Beau?" Beau nodded enthusiastically at Ames, and the older man raised his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders. Every trace of the concern he'd arrived with was gone from his face as he crossed to where Goodnight stood. "Look at this, Beau, it's my new goddaughter. Good heavens, is this what you looked like as a baby, Aggie?"

"Oddly enough, I don't remember."

Ames narrowed his eyes but chuckled. "What's her name?"

"Genevieve Aurelie Robicheaux. We've been calling her Ginny," Goodnight said, not bothering to keep the pride out of his voice. Even though he hadn't managed to convince Augusta to name the baby Goodnight Augusta, they'd compromised on the initials. Ames's face lit up when he heard her middle name, and Goodnight rolled his eyes. "No, Ames, we didn't name her after your damn house. Now what was your hurry about?"

"Oh, yeah," Ames said, putting Beau down to dig in his coat pocket. He pulled out a newspaper and held it out to Goodnight. "Trade you."

Goodnight swapped Ginny for the newspaper, and Ames bounced her happily, introducing himself as Uncle Ames and promising her a pony as soon as she could sit on her own. His comment brought a scolding from Augusta, saying his last animal gift always knocked over her water when she did laundry, and Goodnight knew that of course Ames replied, but whatever he said went unheard as the words on the paper sunk in.

 _A man named Allen Evans of New England, one of the band, was shot, and when dying he confessed that the scheme was gotten up by Brown, who represented to those he wished to induce to follow him that the negroes would rise by thousands and Maryland and Virginia be made free States, this being the chief object they had in view._

His blood running cold, Goodnight's hands shook as he hurriedly scanned the rest of the article. This…was rebellion.

"—say," came Augusta's voice, breaking through his thoughts, and Goodnight's head jerked up, his heart pounding. As he started to shake his head, Augusta blanched and reached for the newspaper, which he tugged out of her reach. She gave an impressive frown. "Goody, let me see that.

" _A dispatch from Harpers' Ferry, dated three o'clock this morning, states that several military companies arrived from Charleston and Shepardstown, Virginia, and from Frederick, Maryland, had taken possession of the town. Upon the approach of the troops, the rioters withdrew to the arsenal, and entrenched themselves in the Armory…"_

While Augusta stopped reading aloud, her mouth kept moving, and eventually, she looked up at the men with wide, frightened eyes. "What…what does this mean? Ames, Goody, what does this mean?"

For once, Ames seemed at a loss for words.

Brown wanted to make Maryland and Virginia free states. It was one thing to argue over which way to vote, but it was another thing entirely to attempt to lead a slave revolution. This was more than squabbling over territories—this was flat-out rebellion. Before he could stop himself, Goodnight whispered, "There's no going back from this."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Goodnight turned his attention back to Augusta. She swallowed hard and didn't make a sound, but instead glanced down to Beau, who was watching the adults apprehensively. She smiled warmly, losing any trace of nerves, and scooped him up, and immediately Beau returned to his sunny self.

"Listen, Aggie, I didn't bring this by to scare you," Ames began, but when both Goodnight and Augusta cut their eyes to him sharply, he quieted. With a sigh, he held out Ginny towards Goodnight. "Well, you two have some things to talk about, and I don't think Mattie knows about this yet, so I'll just be on my way."

"We really do thank you for stopping by," Augusta said, already ushering him towards the door.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Ames said once more as he took the hint and twisted the knob, but not before turning his cow eyes towards them apologetically. "And maybe now isn't the time to ask for favors, but don't tell Mattie I've seen the baby. She'd skin me alive if she knew."

"Why're you telling us that? 'Hey Mattie, I saw Goody's and Augusta's baby just now' will be the first thing out of your mouth when you get home," Goodnight said, and Ames grinned, relieved, at the return to their playful teasing.

"That's no way to treat me if you want me to be the godfather," Ames quipped, patting Goodnight's cheek, and Goodnight swatted his hand away.

"That's no way to treat me if you don't want Oceane and Julien to be the godparents."

"The devil would be godfather before Augusta let Oceane and Julien."

"Perhaps, but Salome and Dorian stand a good chance."

"Oh, you. You've always been too smart for your own good." Ames tipped his hat towards Augusta. "You take care now, and watch this fellow—he's a tricky one. And expect Mattie to be over first thing in the morning now that she knows you can have visitors."

000

Goodnight was a peaceful sleeper. Once he was comfortable against her, he was still for the rest of the right, and after two and a half years, Augusta had grown so used to his unmoving warmth that when he did move, she woke immediately.

The weight of his arm disappeared off her waist, leaving an oddly wanting feeling, and Augusta cracked open her eyes, dragging herself to consciousness. As the bed shifted, she just managed to slur, "What's going on?"

"Dammit," she heard Goodnight hiss, and she rolled onto her back. Goodnight was pulling on a pair of britches under his night dress. He frowned as she squinted at him. "Go back to sleep, darlin'."

"I can't, I'm wide awake now."

"Dammit," Goodnight said again, with just a hint of his usual sideways grin, just a hint that didn't come close to reaching his eyes; he was trying too hard to seem relaxed. Augusta sat up, meeting his gaze, and silently asked him to come back to bed.

When he responded just as silently that he had no intentions of doing that, Augusta pushed back the covers. "Let's go swing."

"Don't you think it's a little too dark and cold for that?"

"I'll get a blanket, and you're fairly warm."

They dressed quietly and slipped downstairs, out the door and onto the back porch, where they wrapped themselves in a quilt. With all the stars visible, the night was clear and calm, and Augusta tried to remember a time when she and Goodnight had been out at this hour; none came to mind, save for parties or parades. Pressed against her husband's side, with him pushing them idly back and forth, Augusta couldn't help but think this was how things were supposed to be, how they should have spent more nights like this. She leaned her head against the crook of Goodnight's neck, closing her eyes as he absently began to stroke her hair.

This was how they were supposed to spend sleepless nights.

But from the back of her mind came the words from the newspaper that afternoon, and her stomach somersaulted at the memory. She had seen Goodnight's face ashen, had felt her heart drop when he tried to keep it from her; that had been the worst part because Goodnight had never kept anything from her, not even when they hadn't been married.

"Goody," she whispered, only to break the hush. If Goodnight had been unable to sleep, he should have been talkative, and his quietness was making her even more nervous.

"Gus," he answered slowly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Are we going to war?"

His silence gave her enough of an answer, but eventually, he said, strained, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd say we are."

"Promise me you won't go," Augusta whispered, her chest tightening. Goodnight couldn't go, he couldn't leave her, not when they had children and a home. But she knew before he answered what he would say. He was too noble, too revered and too proud of that to ever stay while the men he'd grown up with went away.

"Gus, darlin'," he began, but that was as far as he got before he broke off. Augusta tangled their fingers together.

"I'm scared, Goody."

Goodnight let out a single huff, and then he genuinely chuckled. "You, scared? Why, Augusta Robicheaux, I'd never believe that. You've already lived with three devils, I don't see how a bit of war could scare you."

"I mean it," she insisted. "If you go, I'll be here alone, and I have no clue how to keep this place going, and Goody…I love you. _Il y a longtemps que je t'aime…"_

" _Jamais je ne t'oublierai,"_ they both finished.

000

"It wasn't love at first sight, really, it wasn't." Goodnight still wonders what it had been exactly. Improper, but entirely honorable. Slow, but meaningful. "I met such a curious little creature, and I had to know what made her tick."

No matter how romantic, he'd never been one to believe in love at first sight. There was no such thing as loving a person when you didn't know them, he'd thought. Conversations were a great deal different depending on whether they were happening under the watchful eye of chaperone or under the light of the moon, and people—they were never the same. Augusta was ever-changing. She was not the same girl the night of the Castex ball as she had been at the Magees', and she was not the same woman he came home to as he married. But then again, he was not the same either.

Billy's brow is furrowed, most likely in confusion or concentration, perhaps both, and it gives him a wary look. Sometimes Goodnight thinks Billy is the embodiment of everyone he left behind. Ames's friendship, Salome's stoicism, Sam's responsibility, Augusta's patience, even Micah's comradery.

"It wasn't love at first sight with Gus and me," Goodnight repeats. He isn't sure why he's saying this, exactly, but he'd seen the way Billy had looked at the schoolmarm—that was a look he'd seen plenty of times in ballrooms, the startled, doe-eyed gaze of a fellow presented with an individual who was suddenly very attractive; hell, Billy had dropped his cigarette. He knows he owes this to Billy. "We can stay here if you'd like."

Realization replaces Billy's wariness, and, all but rolling his eyes, he looks away and goes back to his undressing. "Goody, I'm not in love with her."

Somehow, Goodnight finds that oddly comforting.


	12. Chapter 12

**Dates:  
** **Billy: Fall 1878  
** **Augusta: April 1860; Mid-October-January 1861**

 **Election day was 8 November 1860.**

 **South Carolina seceded 20 December 1860, and Louisiana followed on 26 January 1861.**

 **Miss Caro Rhett is not my character and instead belongs to Margaret Mitchell. Because I freaking love that story.**

"I miss that dog," Billy says offhandedly one evening. He's wringing out his shirt over the basin in their room, having been caught in a downpour just as they reached the outskirts of a town. His teeth chatter discreetly. It was nowhere close to the first time they'd been caught in a storm, and under normal circumstances, they'd strip down and leave their clothes by the fire, but it's October and cold.

Goodnight checks the breast pocket of his overcoat, and finding it dry, he trades his panic for a scowl towards the water that comes out of Billy's shirt, then at the puddle gathering under his feet. They'll be out of towels in ten minutes at this rate. "Well, you're the one who gave him away."

"We never had any jerky with him around," Billy continues, shaking his head, smirking as Goodnight scoffs.

"Billy, if you'd wanted jerky, you shouldn't have been feeding it to him every other minute," Goodnight reminds him, his scowl shrinking, and Billy glances over his shoulder.

"He was skinny."

"And you certainly took care of that, didn't you?"

"You're getting to be an asshole in your old age," Billy says, sliding his suspenders down over his shoulders. He has the faintest of smiles on his lips, but his eyes flash with silent laughter. Billy can wordlessly tease someone better than anyone Goodnight has ever met. Maybe it gets them into trouble, but Goodnight appreciates it. With what looks like a dozen more quips on his lips, Billy repeats, "I miss that dog, Goody."

Billy had given away their dog a few towns back to a chubby-cheeked little farm girl with the biggest eyes Goodnight had ever seen—well, almost the biggest, he thinks bitterly. Goodnight scoffs again, but a smile spreads across his face. Somehow Billy is good at that. "You just couldn't resist those sad blue eyes."

Slowly, the smile fades from Billy's own eyes, and he goes back to undressing, his britches making a slapping sound as he tosses them onto the floor in front of the fireplace. "They get me every time."

000

Turning the roads to a soupy mess, it rained near daily the first two weeks that April of 1860. The parish had tried to keep on with social activity, but after the Magee carriage broke a wheel coming from a ball at the Millers', there were no more barbecues or balls, and social activity was paused except for Sunday Mass. Yet that hadn't prevented all accidents.

For a good hour, Augusta had wandered about Saltmore Hall, telling little snippets of stories. Here was where Oceane had pushed her down the stairs when Augusta had worn a new dress and Oceane hadn't liked that her sister looked pretty. "I bled on my dress, but she got whooped for that," Augusta had said with just a hint of satisfaction in her voice, clearly not caring about the dress.

There was where Anastasie had pulled Salome's hair the first time Salome had called her a bitch. This was the Bible from which their father had always read the Christmas story on Christmas Eve, and this must have been her mother's latest knitting project. Here was the desk where Mr. Evercreech had always done plantation business, and here was where Augusta sat to read in companionable silence with her father.

Goodnight followed his wife from the library and paused when she did. Saltmore Hall was no Foxsong, but it was beautiful in its own right, with glistening wood instead of marble floors and bright blue and white walls, a warm, cheery place—or it had been, but now it, in wake of recent events, stood oddly detached from the rest of the world. Once as lively as its inhabitants, the house was now lifeless, the curtains closed and hanging limply, the grandfather clock silent, and the gloom was only added to by the little woman in a black crepe dress standing in the middle of the foyer, glancing around as if utterly out of place.

"I'm an orphan," Goodnight heard Augusta murmur to herself.

"You're not an orphan," Goodnight reminded her, and he would have been amused at her reaction had it not been such a somber moment; instead, he let a wave of grief wash over him for Augusta.

"Well, my parents are dead," Augusta said, pressing her lips together in a thin line, "and we have two houses now. What do we do with two houses?"

"I have no idea," he relented with a heavy sigh. Sometimes, like now when she was focusing on the fact that they had two houses and not that she'd lost both her parents, he thought she was too practical. It wasn't that he wanted to see her in sorrow, but Goodnight wished she would do something; he had no idea how to comfort her when all she did was walk around with a long face and drooped shoulders.

Finally, she turned to him with a wobbling lip, and Goodnight smothered his guilt from being relieved that she was about to cry. All he had to do was open his arms, and she was burying herself in his hold, clinging to him tightly. Goodnight laid his chin on her head and rocked slowly side to side, smoothing her hair as he breathed, "Oh, Gus, darlin'...I've got you." But her shoulders never shook, and a sob never broke free from her lips, and when she pulled away after what was entirely too short a time for a proper cry, her eyes were still brimming with tears, a few stains on her cheeks saying that she hadn't let many escape.

"We have two houses, Goody," Augusta insisted. "What do we do with them?"

He knew exactly what she wanted. Still clutching him to her, face turned up to meet his with wide, pleading eyes, Goodnight could hear in her tone that she was not asking him strictly about the houses but rather beseeching him to fix the whole mess. She did not know what to do, but of course her husband would because that's what husbands were for: taking care of the women and making sense of the things that the feminine mind could not understand.

While Goodnight tried to think of something to tell her, knowing anything would pacify her, he raked his fingers through her long curls, which she had left down, and rubbed gently at the nape of her neck. "I reckon we could probably sell it. And if you don't want to do that, I'd understand. It's your home after all."

But Augusta looked at him slowly, a bit dazed, and shaking her head, said, "No. My home is with you."

"Well...we can keep it for any more boys that we might have. As for the land, I do have some ideas." Augusta nodded and allowed him to lead her to the back porch. "Now it's too late to do anything different, but keep in mind that I don't have a mind for cotton. Next season, though, I'd like to plant sugar on half the land after the picking is done. With the other half, up here closer to the house, we could grow more crops, raise some cattle and pigs. Chickens. Maybe a few geese. A peacock or two."

That got a snort from Augusta, and Goodnight grinned down at her. "It'll take some planning, and a good bit of building too. We'll have to expand the barn and probably the fencing. Hell, we'd probably need another mill to process all that sugar. But right now, we're looking at me trying to run two plantations, and not small ones either." He elbowed her, just enough that she grinned back, and said, "Maybe I'll teach you how to run this one."

"Can you imagine that? A woman running a plantation. Honestly. You're too imaginative sometimes." But there in her voice he found the quiet lilting drawl again, and he knew he'd been successful. She laid her head on his chest. "I'll do whatever you think is best. We have the money Daddy left me that we could use to expand, and it wouldn't come out of our finances."

"Darlin', isn't there anything else you'd rather do with that?" Augusta turned her face up to him, brow knitted in confusion as she thought about what he'd just said, and the look in her eyes asked how she was supposed to know what to do with the money when women never handled that sort of thing. "Just think on it."

"Goody, do you mind if we go home now? I'd like to check on the children, and I'm sure Ames and Mattie are driving you mother mad by now." She smiled suddenly again, a little puff of air escaping her lips as though a laugh was second thought. "Do you know what Mattie said to me earlier? 'It's a good thing this happened after Mardi Gras, or you wouldn't have been able to go to a single ball.'"

Goodnight rubbed his hand across his face, recalling a time when Mathilde had tried to comfort him. After three years, it seemed she had still not improved in her bedside manner. "That sounds like her, all right."

000

Beau and Ginny were as different as night and day. As good a child as he was, Beau was loud and all boy, always ending up with ripped clothes and a dirty face. He'd learned to run before he walked, and the day he'd trotted out the parlor after Augusta, Goodnight had nearly slipped off the sofa in surprise; though, really, he should have known better since Beau never let his mama out of sight for too long.

They'd grown used to sunny little Beau, a handsome thing with a mop of dark blond curls and clever blue eyes, sweet as honey but rambunctious as a stallion. And then came Ginny, Genevieve Aurelie, blessed by the Evercreech beauty. With inky curls, big eyes, and round cheeks like her mother, Ginny contrasted sharply against her brother. She hardly made a sound, rarely cried, and was perfectly content to let anyone and everyone hold her; she twisted her fingers through Augusta's long curls, slept soundly against Goodnight's chest, and never let Sam walk past without raising her arms to him.

" _When a nightingale landed on my hand,  
When a nightingale landed on my hand,  
It told me three words in Latin_

 _It told me three words in Latin,  
It told me three words in Latin:  
Men are worthless_

 _That men are worthless,  
That men are worthless,  
And boys are worth even less."_

Goodnight liked to believe that, if he sang the song enough, eventually his daughter would understand. And, from the way she grinned at him from around her sugar-tit, maybe she already did.

Ginny reached up a little hand and patted his cheek, cooing softly when he scrunched his nose. He was surprised that she hadn't gone to sleep yet, since they'd been in the swing for probably a good hour, hiding from the Indian summer heat by gently rocking back and forth, but she seemed to like it when someone sang; Augusta's quiet voice never failed to put her to sleep, but with Goodnight, she always smiled and listened raptly, and if he stopped, she'd scowl.

Just off the porch, Beau squealed with delight as Othello dragged him by the scruff of his shirt across the yard. He stumbled to his feet, and Goodnight winced at the stain across the seat of his britches. It wasn't often that he was left solely in charge of the children—at least, not without Mammy or Ruth nearby—and a grass stain was not going to easily win him another chance.

As if able to read his thoughts, Ginny cooed again, dimples popping into her cheeks, her eyes, copies of her mother's, twinkling as though to say, _You're in trouble, aren't you?_

"I can get myself out of this mess just fine, miss, thank you," Goodnight told her, just as the sounds of voices floated through the open windows of the house and onto the porch. He hadn't heard the carriage.

"…terribly fine, liked to bit my head off when I tried to get her a glass of water," Augusta said wearily to someone inside, sweeping onto the porch, wearing a frazzled expression and carrying an envelope. In one deft move, she swooped up Beau, who threw himself at her, with a kiss to his cheek and kept moving to rest against the railing across from Goodnight. "You know, making a mistake once, maybe twice, is all right, but as many times as I fall for them? I must be stupid."

"You are anything but," Goodnight reminded her with no small amount of pity. Valentine had not always been the most pleasant sister, but she was his sister nonetheless, and he knew he would do anything for her—and he did not have even half the kindness and patience of his wife. "I take it from that exchange that Sal is still ornery."

"If you're ever given the option to stir up a beehive or deal with her during labor, choose the beehive." Slowly her voice was losing its irritability and returning to its usual slow, soft drawl. Augusta sighed and attempted to swipe a hand over her face before she remembered the envelope in the hand not occupied by Beau. "Oh! I'd almost forgotten. Dorian was showing up just as I was leaving, and he'd brought this with him from the post office. It's addressed to you, all the way from Charleston."

Taking the envelope from her, Goodnight couldn't help but grin at the excitement that had so easily replaced her weariness. He made a mess of the envelope as he slit it open with his finger and wondered who would be sending him a letter from Charleston. With such a distance between Louisiana and South Carolina and so much to do at home, he'd lost contact with most of his acquaintances from his studies, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd written to any of them. He scanned the letter briefly, knowing Augusta was eager to know what it said.

"It's from a man named Leonard Lyman, old friend of mine. He says he's gotten married and requests I bring you back east. 'It's high time Charleston met your wife, and we'd be delighted to throw a ball in your honor,'" Goodnight said, surprised at the invitation. Leonard had been his closest native friend, and they'd corresponded on occasion, but he'd never expected anything like this. Still scanning the contents, he muttered, "He must have some wife if he's wanting to show her off even to me."

"He wants us to come to Charleston?"

Goodnight glanced up to find all the vivacity returned to his wife's eyes, her day with a ratty Salome all but forgotten. In the one fleeting moment that he met her eyes, he knew he'd already lost whatever disagreement they might could have had, and he nodded slowly. It looked like they were going to Charleston.

Immediately, Augusta set about to prattling out details. "Well, we'd need a day to get to the post office, and we'd probably need a week to get packed and things settled here. It'll take around, oh, four days to get there, so tell him—oh, but you'll have to vote on the eighth. Tell him we'll leave here the fifteenth. How long should we stay? A month? That doesn't put us home in time for Christmas, though, and your mother would be here all alone, unless she went to Valentine's. I really can't imagine…Beau, why is the seat of your britches wet?"

"Ollo," Beau explained while his mother put him down to investigate his wet spot. She sighed when she saw the grass stain and rolled her eyes up to Goodnight.

"Listen, Gus, I was right here in the swing when Othello started dragging him across the yard, and he was up before I could have gotten to him. He's perfectly fine."

"Sometimes I think I have three children," Augusta told him, rolling her eyes again.

Goodnight wagged his finger at her, doing his best to suppress a smile. "You have a smart mouth, ma'am, and I don't much appreciate it."

"Oh, you fibber," she laughed, her head tipping back in that _way_ , moving to sit next to him. Goodnight kissed her cheek and drew her closer, tucking away the curls that had fallen from her net. "Don't bother, you know my hair never stays."

"Yes, but I can appreciate that." He kissed her cheek once more. "So what shall I tell him? We can leave on the eighth, straight from New Orleans. That would give us time to stay a month and be home by Christmas, if that is what you would like."

"I'll go where you choose," she shrugged.

"You're forgetting you're still in mourning," Goodnight reminded her. She still had half a year before New Orleans would be accepting of her coming out.

"Well, Charleston doesn't know I'm supposed to be in mourning. And besides, wearing all this makes it worse," Augusta sighed, and Goodnight did a double-take, causing her to sigh again. "Wearing this just makes it linger. I'm sad, Goody, of course I am, but it's not good to dwell, and I don't want to.

"My parents are gone, and I am sad, but there is plenty left to keep us going," Augusta murmured, settling herself at his side. Beau crawled onto her lap, and with Goodnight rocking them, the four sat on the porch swing while the October afternoon turned to evening.

000

After a tense election day in New Orleans, Goodnight and Augusta caught the six o'clock train towards Charleston. Goodnight was obviously glad to leave the city with all its anger and talk of States' Rights behind for the seclusion of their car, where he only had his little wife and their two children on which to focus. Jolly little Beau bounced around their car, immensely excited with all the new glittering things and awaiting adventure, and Augusta, her miniature on her lap, sat on the sofa, laughing gently as she tried to calm him, but she did so only out of habit, not wanting to quell his excitement, which she too felt. They were going to Charleston, after all!

They arrived in Charleston by the end of the week, all beginning to go stir-crazy at the limited space they'd been able to roam. The depot in Charleston was bustling, ladies with their noses in the air and gentlemen with not a single hair out of place, and Augusta couldn't help but think Goodnight fit in quite well with those gentlemen. For a moment, she wondered why he'd ever returned home to Louisiana when he had likely been so happy here.

Over the crowd, they could just hear someone shouting Goodnight's name, and gripping Beau's hand tighter in her own, she followed her husband towards its source, a small, spry man with a quivering ginger mustache and more jump than bounce in his step. Clasping Goodnight's hand that was not occupied by Ginny, he pulled him into a hug, crying, "Goody, what a sight to see!"

Goodnight laughed and clapped his back. "Leo, you sonovabitch, what a surprise you gave us! Let me introduce my exquisite wife Augusta and our wonderful children, Beau and Ginny. Gus—Mrs. Robicheaux, this is my friend, Mr. Leonard Lyman."

Her neck heated, and Augusta found herself suddenly bashful, feeling more like a girl coming out than a married woman being introduced to her husband's friend. Remembering her graces, she dipped into a bow, asking sweetly, "How do you do, Mr. Lyman?"

"Very well, ma'am, very well indeed. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to Charleston," he replied, lowering into a bow of his own and kissing her knuckles. Augusta couldn't help but think he spoke funnily, not in the drawl she was used to, but in one entirely different, Charleston sounding like "Chaahs-tun." He snapped his fingers for his driver to get their luggage.

"So where is she, this woman you're wanting to display," Goodnight asked. Ginny, unhappy with not having her father's attention, tugged on his watch chain, and he handed her his watch with a kiss to the top of her dark head. Lyman snickered at the action, shaking his head.

"She sends her apologies, but she had her hands full getting the ball together for tomorrow. I'm sure you know how it is, Mrs. Robicheaux," Lyman explained. Once the luggage was gathered, they followed Lyman out of the depot. Goodnight's usual slow saunter had been traded for a bit of Lyman's spring, making his steps jauntier, and Augusta grinned at the back of his confident form. Part of her had wanted to come to Charleston just to taste the coastal city for herself, but that was only a little part.

Years ago, at one of the DuBois balls, he had paraded her up and down the hedges, and she had listened to him describe the city so wondrously, with so much fervor, and from his voice, she had fallen in love with more than just Charleston. It never took more than a gentle prodding for him to launch into a tale from his time here, and Augusta adored the look that came over him when he told them, the tone that crept into his voice. He never knew he was doing these things, and afterwards, he'd always question why she was looking at him so curiously. This was the part that had wanted to come to Charleston.

000

Nearly an hour later, the carriage arrived at a pale blue house hidden behind a tall stone fence, two long palmetto trees lining either side of the gate. About half the size of their city house in New Orleans, it was three stories, with curved arches about the porch, the upper porch uncovered, and wrought iron railing on the miniature balconies on the side windows.

Augusta had quietly admonished Beau on the ride that if he couldn't sit still, she wouldn't let him look out the window, but now she said nothing as he bounced in her lap, his sister watching him for a moment before smiling behind her at her father.

The moment the carriage door opened, the front door flew back, and two women made their way out. Goodnight recognized one as the dowager Mrs. Lyman. The other was much younger, probably younger than Valentine, with blond hair so fair it was almost white, and nearly colorless eyes to match. She carried herself like all Charleston women, in that way Goodnight had come to hate from his time here: pointed chin in the air, eyes half-closed as they looked down a nose, moving at a languid, bored pace with a haughty air that said, _Oh, bless your poor heart._

"Goody, you've met my mother," Lyman said as soon as they were all out of the carriage, "but this is my wife, Luella Lyman. Mrs. Lyman, this is my friend from school I've told you about, Mr. Goodnight Robicheaux, his wife Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux, and their children, Beauregard and Genevieve."

"You must be the little Cajun woman Mr. Lyman said Mr. Robicheaux had married. And just look at you, Mrs. Robicheaux, aren't you just passionate!" Louella took Augusta's hands while Augusta hurried to hide a confused expression. Louella fingered the fabric of Augusta's cobalt traveling suit. "This is such a lovely color! Why, I don't think any matron in all of Charleston, probably not even all of Savannah, would ever be bold enough to wear this!"

Augusta fumbled for a reply, obviously as unsure as Goodnight was of how to react to such a statement, but Luella bowed and continued, "Y'all come on into the house, now, and get settled," Louella drawled, making 'house' sound like 'hahss.'

"There'll be a ball tomorrow night to welcome you," she continued, leading them through a bright foyer and up a curving set of richly polished stairs. "This is where you can sleep, Mrs. Robicheaux, and right here is where it connects to where the children can sleep. Mr. Robicheaux, I have you across the hall."

Goodnight and Augusta exchanged a look, one of amused surprise, over Luella's head. _Separate bedrooms_ , Augusta's face read, they _actually use those in Charleston?_ They each had their own bedroom at Foxsong and in New Orleans, but that was only a formality for when they'd been moving Augusta, and in three years of marriage, they'd never slept apart. Goodnight wiped the smile off his face and cleared his throat. "Ma'am, I believe Aug—Mrs. Robicheaux and I will be fine in this room alone. And, moreover, part of our things are in the same trunks—you know, shoes in one, our stationary, the likes. It'll be just as easy for us to be in one room."

At this, Louella's small, colorless eyes went so wide it seemed they would fall out of her pale face. Goodnight contained his laugh but pocketed a remark on how she looked like a frightened ghost, and she stammered. "Well, of course, Mr. Robicheaux, as you wish. Had I known people did such things in Louisiana, I wouldn't have said anything. But, no matter, I'll leave you two to it. Dinner will be at eight."

Goodnight turned to Augusta when Luella had gone, and a laugh escaped before she bit her lips. "That look—what do you think of her?"

"I'm reserving my judgement, Mrs. Robicheaux," Goodnight said, taking Augusta's hand to pull her to the window. Across the street lay the harbor, and just past that Fort Sumter.

"Which means you've already passed your judgement and just aren't telling me."

They both chuckled quietly, and Goodnight, with a deep breath, sighed, "She is the embodiment of Charleston women."

"Why, Mr. Robicheaux!" Augusta clutched at her heart, eyes wide, but then she rolled them. "Oh, but I forget how you are a Louisiana man."

Goodnight chuckled again. He'd forgotten how formal Charlestonians were. "This may be a longer stay than we expected."

000

The Lymans had invited a few of their friends to dinner, most of them other men from the college with their wives, and Goodnight was glad to see old acquaintances. He had missed them in the first few months after coming home, but, for the most part, they had been put behind him as he readjusted to Louisiana life—and when the neighbor's daughter had come hopping across the creek.

Luella introduced Augusta to them all as "Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux, the little Cajun woman," and all the women had said, "Oh, you're the little Cajun woman we've heard all about!"

Goodnight had no qualms about being Cajun—in fact, it was a source of pride at home—and even though Augusta was only half-Cajun from her mother's side, he knew her father's English descent had never bothered her. But he could see that every time they described her as such, a rebuke bloomed on her lips, one that Goodnight mirrored. After the fifth lady said it, he had half a mind to tell her Cajuns were not exotic creatures for gawking. He kept his mouth shut, though, knowing any spectacle would soon spread to the whole city, and it was only their first night.

As soon as they sat down to dinner, the men took up what could only be a routine talk of the despicable election outcome and the horror that was Abe Lincoln, which soon turned into a heated cry for secession or war. Or both. The women discussed quietly among themselves the same topics, and by the time the soup was cleared away and conversation had not moved elsewhere, Goodnight watched Augusta's eyes glass over, as they often did when her sisters were engaged in battle.

The next day passed with Goodnight showing his family the area around the house, during which there was much laughter and many smiles. The ball came with more talk of Abe Lincoln, secession, and war, and several more introductions of, The little Cajun woman. Neither Goodnight nor Augusta made any remarks about the social when they retired to bed early in the morning.

That was how the week, and then the next, progressed. The little Robicheaux family milled about Charleston during the days, even venturing out to the beach for a few days, but since November was cold, and Beau was a pain to keep out of the water, they reluctantly went back to the Lyman's house on the Battery for another ball.

000

The little Cajun woman. It had been charming the first few times that they'd called her that, but when it became more frequent than her name, the charm quickly wore off.

Augusta would be the first to admit that she'd had her fair share of difficult women, but these prissy Charleston women were nothing in comparison to her sisters. These Charleston women were amiable and back-handed and batted their eyes so much it was a wonder Augusta's hair stayed in place. Somehow they all knew Goodnight and tittered their silly heads off about him—or at least, as much as they could and still be respectable. The moment he left the room, they would put their heads together and giggle behind their hands at his elegant, retreating form before they realized Augusta was still in the room. Then they would straighten and smile so sweetly, and they would ask her how a man like that could have ever gotten a woman like her.

And Goodnight had noticed. If it had been a few young girls, newly debuted, he would have kissed their hands, speaking French until they called for smelling salts, and then retreated to his wife's side where they would both laugh. But this was more than fresh-faced belles; this was a gaggle of belles, matrons, and old maids combined, and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes while he humored them.

"Oh, Mrs. Robicheaux, you absolutely have to meet this lady. Miss Caro! Miss Caro, come here," called Luella, in that grating accent, still referring to women she knew so well with a prefix. Augusta had half a mind to swat the other woman off her arm, but she allowed herself to be toted across the ballroom. Already she had met so many ladies and gentlemen that she couldn't keep them straight, not that she cared to. Moreover, her feet ached, and she was bored of these balls, which held nothing over the ones during Mardi Gras. Over Luella's head, Augusta scanned the room for Goodnight, hoping he would come to her rescue, but her husband was nowhere in sight.

"Here she is! This is Miss Caro Rhett. Miss Caro, this is Mrs. Augusta Robicheaux," Luella said, pausing in front of a dark-haired girl with clever eyes. Augusta thought she could have been friends with this Miss Caro had she stopped looking down her nose. Luella continued, "This is the little Cajun woman I was telling you about. You know, Mrs. _Goodnight_ Robicheaux."

"Oh," said Miss Caro, eyebrows raising appraisingly. In a way that reminded Augusta of Valentine, Miss Caro's clever eyes skimmed over Augusta's luxurious velvet ballgown and equally exquisite choker, and not for the first time, Augusta cursed Goodnight's love of fine things. It was bad enough that she was already on display for being the little Cajun woman without her being the most expensively dressed.

Having scanned Augusta, Miss Caro smiled predatorily, barring small, while teeth. "Well, you have a wonderful husband, Mrs. Robicheaux, and we all adore him here in Charleston. He's such a gentleman, we've never been able to figure out why he says in that wretched old Louisiana when he would do so well here. And so talented! Remember that time, Mrs. Lyman, when he shot the piper right in the head while it was flying? Oh, I'll never forget that. South Carolina would be so proud to have him fighting for her, he'd probably be a captain or major, I'd assume. He'll be a hero when the war comes, that's for sure."

 _He'll be a hero when the war comes._ No, he wouldn't be a hero because he wouldn't go. He'd said time and again he hoped it would never come to war. And even if he went, he'd fight for Louisiana because he was a Cajun just as she was, and they'd never align themselves with Charlestonians, not for all their love of books and music. They'd stay where they had sprawling houses where everyone was always welcome, where the people were friendly and meant it. They'd stay and fight for their _home_.

That was the last straw.

When Miss Caro went on, joined by Luella and another lady whose name was long forgotten, Augusta was thankfully saved from speaking; she didn't know if she could hold her tongue if she had to answer this awful Miss Caro, who couldn't have been more than fifteen and already harping on war just as well as all the Mexican War veterans. Her face hot and blood pounding in her head, Augusta mumbled a parting to Luella and hurried from the ballroom, sure that they'd only miss her when they stopped talking long enough to realize their little Cajun pet had gone.

Once she was out of sight, Augusta lifted her skirts and scampered up the stairs. She was so sick of Charlestonians and all their haughty talk of secession, sick of never hearing about anything besides States' Rights and war and Abe Lincoln. They would all greet her in their strange voices, cooing over her son and daughter, oohing over her dresses and jewels, remarking what a gentleman her husband was, and then they'd have their noses stuck in the air again and be right back to talk about war. Arrogant fools, the lot of them.

Augusta threw back the door to the room they'd been using in a moment of uncurbed rage, and upon remembering Beau and Ginny were sleeping in the adjoining room, closed it much more quietly, leaning against it and closing her eyes. Her throat was uncomfortably tight; Anastasie would cry, Oceane would cry, but she'd been the good one, and so she shuddered a breath and willed it away.

She hated these Charlestonians. She would much rather be surrounded by the DuBoises and Jarreaus and Magees and Millers, even Josiah, even Ansel Delacroix, instead of these pompous coastal aristocrats. She wanted to be laughing in the corner with Mathilde, watching their husbands banter, instead of parading about the room on Luella Lyman's arm and being introduced as 'the little Cajun woman.' She wanted to come upstairs to the nursery and sit in her wicker rocking chair with both her children nestled against her. She wanted to be in Louisiana, at home, at Foxsong; it was all she needed, Foxsong, and Goodnight, and her children.

000

"Have you seen my wife," Goodnight kept asking, but no one could give him a straight answer. She'd been with Louella last they'd seen, then with Miss Caro, speaking with the Butler ladies.

"That little Cajun woman? Last we saw, she was headed upstairs," one gentleman clarified, and a burst of anger flared in Goodnight. _That little Cajun woman_ had a goddamned name. But he swallowed his pride and jerked his head as he set off for the stairs.

When he reached their room, he opened the door quietly out of fear she was sleeping, but instead, she was bent over at the wash stand, wiping her face with a towel.

Augusta jumped when she heard him and buried her face in the towel before turning away to the window. In such a strange, foreign way, in nothing like he'd ever heard from her before, her voice, very small, quivered when she spoke. "I-I—we went 'round and 'round earlier, but I guess Mammy just got me too tight. You know how she is with special occasions. I told her I wouldn't go if she did it, but I thought we'd compro—"

"Gus," Goodnight interrupted, watching with a sinking heart as his wife tensed, still not turning towards him. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge how distant she'd been since arriving, the only time he'd seen the real her when they were out exploring. It was so nice to be back, among others who loved the arts just as much as he did, a rarity at home; he'd found Augusta, but she was the only other one he'd met. "Darlin', look at me."

Never one to defy orders, Augusta's shoulders slumped and she turned towards him with such round, doleful eyes that he found himself crossing to her without even realizing he was doing so.

"Augusta, what's going on?" He tilted her chin up. "Have you been crying?"

"No," she all but snarled, recoiling as though he'd burned her. She glowered up at him with her lower lip jutting out just so that it was almost comical, seeing such a childish expression on someone who was anything but childish. Upon realizing her behavior, shame replaced her indignation, and she ducked her eyes, "I'm sorry, I just…"

She drew her arms closer around herself, and though she'd recoiled before, she didn't back away when he drew her closer to him. "I want to go home."

Goodnight loved Charleston, but he loved his family more. And he had no interest in staying somewhere Augusta was uncomfortable. And if he was being completely honest, he'd always hated these Charleston women. "All right. We'll think of an excuse while we pack. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can come up with something just outlandish enough to be believable."

Another unspoken apology on her lips and in her eyes, Augusta fumbled for a smile and whispered, "Thank you."

000

"I swear, your mammy makes the best jambalaya I have ever eaten," Ames sighed, stretching out on the sofa, hands folded over his stomach. "I'd come over every day if it meant that she made that jambalaya."

"Darlin', make a note of that: no more jambalaya," Goodnight whispered to Augusta, loud enough that Ames could hear.

"See if we keep having you over for that crème brûlée you're always hollering for." Ames pulled out a cigar from his front pocket and took the glass of whiskey that Goodnight offered. Since coming home from Charleston, Ames and Mathilde had made it a point to recommence having dinner at least once a week, citing that they had to spend time with their godchildren. Part of Goodnight believed that really was the reason why they came as Mathilde was spending more and more time cooing over Ginny than she did interacting with them. But neither Goodnight nor Augusta would ever deny them at their home, least of all Christmas.

After he'd poured himself a glass, Goodnight retreated to Augusta's side, pressing a kiss to her temple because he hadn't done so in a while before settling himself in the floor by her feet, leaned against her legs and the chair. Their full stomachs making them sleepy, the only sound were Augusta's Parisian birds in the corner, and if he hadn't already made himself comfortable, Goodnight would have covered them with their blankets to shut them up.

"Augusta," Mathilde said, voicing what the men were thinking, "I really hate your birds."

"Be nice, Mattie. We may not get a chance to hear them ever again. We may never get another Christmas together again, either." Ames blew out a perfect smoke circle and then grinned wickedly at Goodnight; he'd spent months trying to teach himself to do that. Goodnight often wondered what Ames would be capable of if he dedicated himself to more important matters than blowing smoke circles. "Who knows what's going to happen after South Carolina."

In that moment, Goodnight's blood ran cold, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Goddamn Ames, bringing up that subject. As far as he knew, Augusta hadn't caught any word of it.

"South Carolina?" She asked, just as expected, and Goodnight sent Ames his most chilling look since Augusta couldn't see his face. "We were just there, what's happened in South Carolina?"

 _Ames, so help me God, Christmas or not, I will strangle you if you don't shut your goddamn mouth_ , Goodnight mouthed to no avail.

"Why, Aggie, haven't you heard? South Carolina seceded."

"Succeeded? Goody, what is he talking about?"

The sonovabitch. "Oh, it's nothing, darlin'. Don't you worry about it." Goodnight reached behind him to pat her knee, and it was only then that Ames, sucking on his teeth when he realized he'd made a mistake, read Goodnight's face.

"Goody, how can you say—" To stop her, Ames laid a hand on the back of Mathilde's neck, what would have been a sweet gesture had he not applied pressure. Mathilde finally looked up from where she'd been making kissy faces at Ginny, and Goodnight couldn't have been more thankful that she'd chosen such a moment to further the conversation.

"Oh. _Secession_ ," Augusta breathed in that small, shaking voice he'd heard in Charleston. There was a pause, and though he couldn't see her, Goodnight knew Augusta was shaking her head. "How silly of me. I should have known."

He felt Augusta's eyes on the back of his head, and he closed his own, trying to plan his words carefully until Ames said, "It's just like Goody said. It's nothing, Aggie."

For what felt like a long time, the easy, silent companionship that had filled the room was replaced with a tense quiet, save for the chatter of Augusta's birds. Ames and Mathilde tried in vain to share looks discreetly with one another, and Goodnight nursed his glass while he figured out what to do. "Gus, why don't you get the cards? We haven't played Whist in a while."

Obediently, Augusta rose and swept past him to the game box, and the other three gathered around the card table.

000

Mammy was doing laundry in the yard when he rode back to the house for lunch the next day. She didn't even look up when she spoke to him. "Mr. Goodnight, are you fussin' with Miss Gussa?"

Taken aback by her comment, Goodnight shook his head. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since Ames and Mathilde had left last night, but they weren't fussing. He and Augusta never fussed. How could she ask him such a thing? "No, Mammy, you know that."

"Well what's wrong with her?" Now Mammy raised up, hands on her hips, breath coming in clouds against the cold December air. Since their engagement dinner, he though he'd won Mammy's approval, but it was clear her loyalty still lay with her baby Gussa.

"I appreciate the show of confidence," Goodnight snarked, frowning at Mammy as he left his horse by the porch and went inside. Nothing was wrong with Augusta.

But there had been an uncomfortable rift between them during the night, a distance that had appeared instantaneously; she hadn't curled up next to him like usual when they'd gone to bed but had instead required Goodnight to wiggle to her side of the bed and conform his body to hers. Multiple times, Goodnight had cursed their friends for bringing up the subject of secession, forcing the conversation that he'd been putting off since he'd seen the newspaper on Saturday—the newspaper he'd tossed out before Augusta got a chance to read it.

He found his wife by the fire in the parlor, clutching Ginny in her lap while Beau sat next to her with a book, babbling to his mama about what he thought the words said; but Augusta wasn't quite with him. She glanced up with glassy eyes when he appeared in the doorway. "Is it lunchtime already?"

This wasn't how he wanted to have this conversation. Truthfully, he hadn't wanted to have the conversation at all, but he'd known he'd have to eventually. "Darlin'...why don't you go get a coat, and I'll have Ruth pack up the basket. We need to talk."

000

"After Harpers Ferry, I'd taken to throwing out newspapers that might worry her. It wasn't right, but I...I didn't know what to do, Billy. It was my job to protect her, to protect my family, and there was a cloud of uncertainty always overhead. I didn't know what was going to happen to the country, I didn't know what to tell my wife. I drank too much then—not to the point where I was cruel or reckless, but to the point where it made Augusta feel useless."

Vividly he can recall his wife's expression when he'd been with the bottle too much. She had a face of glass, and he knew what she was thinking even when she tried to hide it. He can see her eyebrows trying not to come together, her lips trying to remain upturned as she pulled the glass from his grip, a silent plea for him to use her instead. It was then that he'd been washed by guilt and pulled her into his lap, forehead resting against her arm, an apology unsung on his lips.

In the year and a half that's passed since Goodnight began his weaving, Billy has become accustomed to his surprise editions, stories that come out of nowhere and often take a good deal of thought to figure out what Goodnight means.

Goodnight is flipping over their wet clothes by the fire, stark naked except for the blanket he has wrapped around his waist. Without the cover of his clothes, stark white scars stand out sharply against his skin; there's a long slash running the length of his left side, and a circle the side of a silver dollar on his right shoulder. He shakes his head. "Before December of that year, we spoke of war the way we warned our kids the boogeyman would get them if they didn't behave. And then South Carolina seceded, and suddenly the war became much more concrete. Augusta never said a word on it. I didn't know, Billy."

Exactly what he didn't know, he doesn't say. Perhaps there are too many options to choose from.

000

"South Carolina didn't succeed in anything, did they? They left the Union. That was embarrassing of me."

Their basket of lunch lay untouched on Augusta's blanket beside them. Augusta sat sideways in front of him between his legs, he facing her, just like they always did at this point. She had her eyes turned up to him, wide and childlike against her plush cheeks, but he knew she was not childlike at all. Goodnight took a deep breath, no idea how to explain the situation. "Well, they think they did."

"What do you mean? They either did or didn't, Goody, this isn't a game," Augusta argued, a determined frown settling on her lips, obviously not impressed with his answer. Goodnight was a bit taken aback. Normally, Augusta never minded how he would beat around the bush, but her blazing eyes told him not to test her patience.

"They're part of the Union, and the Union is perpetual. They can't leave." He had read both the Articles of Confederation and the Constitution; he knew what they both said, and secession was not a possibility.

"Then what have they done," Augusta insisted, her frown diminishing slightly.

"Nothing with any sense, that's for sure." The words came out before Goodnight realized what he was saying, and he expected another rebuke. Instead, her face softened more, and she turned away, gazing across the creek and looking like a child who had just been told Christmas was very far away. Perhaps, like him, she was wondering how this could have happened so soon after they'd just been in Charleston.

"What does this mean for us? Is Louisiana going to do that?" She took his answer like the Gospel, never going to question his judgement; he had long since realized his wife held him on a pedestal almost as high as the one he put her on.

"It means that South Carolina is a nation surrounded by a much grander nation, beckoning to the other states to follow suit. Now, I'm not sure how it'll pan out, but right now, I reckon there's a mighty high chance that we'll join them." When Augusta didn't reply, he scooted himself closer to her, tucking a curl that had escaped behind her ear. "What's on your mind, darlin'?"

"Was this in last week's newspaper?" Goodnight didn't answer but felt his ears heat up, and again Augusta frowned. "You threw it out, didn't you? I wondered where it had gotten to."

"I'm sorry, Gus, I just didn't want you to worry."

"I can choose my worries myself," she grumbled, and then slowly turned her face to him, now devoid of any harshness, replaced by something Goodnight couldn't quite place. Her little hands tugged on his vest, and Goodnight scooted closer to her. Her head fit so well in the crook of his shoulder. "We're going to war, aren't we, Goody?"

He knew Augusta was perfectly intelligent, but somehow her question threw him for a loop. Part of him hoped she would never come to the conclusion, and the other part hoped he wouldn't have to think about it; but he knew Lincoln would never let them do this. His stomach flipped, but even with his heart pounding, he forced his lopsided smile and buried his face in her hair. "That is for us to find out. But listen, Augusta, that's for me to worry about, you hear? Don't you concern yourself with it."

"It affects me too, Goody."

000

It seemed every man in New Orleans had turned out to the Robicheaux house following the news.

There were all five Miller boys and the four redheaded Jarreau sons; Micah Magee with his father Aaron; Valentine's husband, Sacha Castex; even Louis Petipas, Hattie's husband, a Lafayette man. Dorian Saucier had arrived too with no sign of Salome, much to Goodnight's relief, though he expected Dorian was grateful for the time alone. Never far from Ames, Mathilde had disappeared into Augusta's sitting room, joining her sister Minerva and Olive Delacroix, hidden away on the opposite side of the house; they were the only women who had come, the rest being hurriedly left at home.

Goodnight hoped the women couldn't hear anything that might be said. Judging from what most of them men had told him, their women had no idea what was going on; they'd only watched with curiosity and then fear as their husbands had heard the news from a neighbor and dashed off without a glance goodbye. He knew that the ordeal wouldn't stay hushed like this, if it even was hushed anymore, but he didn't want Augusta to know until there were definite plans.

Some Mardi Gras this was turning out to be.

"To hell with them," shouted Micah, red-faced and frighteningly sober. Goodnight liked him well enough, but he was a brash man when his mind wasn't muddled by alcohol. "It was high time we pulled out!"

"Here, here," agreed Ansel Delacroix, the tobacco man Goodnight had only mildly forgiven for his interest in Augusta, and even now he was finding it hard not to take that forgiveness back.

"They've long disrespected us, and now they'll have to pay for it," Ames said, eyes twinkling over the lip of his whiskey glass, and Goodnight had half a mind to punch him. Leave it to Ames to stir the pot if he thought he'd get a kick out of it. Now was not the time for that.

At Ames's statement, a chorus of roars filled the library, some in outrage, others in agreement. Their voices echoed off the walls, and for a moment, Goodnight had an irrational moment of panic that the ladies would hear.

"Gentleman, gentleman," he successfully tried to soothe. They mostly quieted down to let the Goodnight Robicheaux speak, and he took a deep breath in preparation of how he could smooth things over.

"Now I know tempers are running high, and I know we're all shaken. But let's remember that there are ladies in the house, children too, and it's up to us to take care of them." Even Ames and Micah shook their heads at that statement, and for a moment, it seemed they would behave. Goodnight twisted his glass of whiskey in his hand to stop the shaking. "All of us here have at least one person who's our responsibility. Now, we don't know what the next few months will hold, but we need to keep our responsibilities in mind as we choose our actions."

"What do you mean we don't know what the next few months will hold? Of course we do, war's inevitable! It's the only thing left," Micah cried, and Goodnight decided if anyone was getting hit today, it would be Micah. He'd gotten everyone mildly calm until Micah spoke up.

"We shouldn't _want_ to go to war, Micah," Goodnight implored, his voice betraying him, slightly leaking panic. He didn't have the time or nerves to deal with the parish and his family.

"They've insulted our dignity and morals! Imagine, a Southerner without morals!"

"We're God-fearing men, the lot of us!"

"Are we not gentlemen!"

"That we may be," Goodnight insisted, raising his voice to be heard, nearly sloshing out the contents of his drink as his hand twitched. Blood pounded in his head, and not from anger. He just knew Augusta and the other women could hear what they were saying, and he needed to see her. The poor little thing, she was probably wrought with fright, those childish green eyes of her wide.

"Gentleman we may be. And not just gentlemen, but Southern gentlemen at that. We have heart, we have gallantry, we have spirit, and we have our _pride_. But the truth of the matter, men, is that we do not have the necessary measures to engage in war. If we jump into this now, we will find ourselves sorely ill-equipped. You cannot fight a war with plows and pitchforks."

Everyone stilled and said nothing, blinking like what Goodnight had said had never crossed their minds.

"So what are you saying," Ames asked eventually, breaking the silence and looking at his friend as if he'd just told him his name had never been Goodnight Robicheaux. He shook his head. "Goody, you're—you're the best shot around. You're a Robicheaux, your grandfather…how could you not fight?"

With a terrible aching pit in his stomach, Goodnight whispered, "That's not it, Ames. I'm just as much a Southern gentleman as you. If it comes to it, if our great state chooses to fight, I'll be there defending her. But we can't be brash with this."

Judging from their somber faces and quiet mouths, Goodnight hoped he'd instilled some sense in them. He gazed around the room, into the eyes of the men he'd grown up with, men with whom he'd shared all life's milestones. They weren't family, but looking at them now, they almost felt like it.

"What do we tell our wives," Elam Miller asked, breaking the silence.

What indeed?

000

Goodnight waited on Ames, Ansel, and Micah to collect their wives before he appeared in the doorway.

"Goody," Augusta whispered from over Ginny's head, her eyes wider than usual, mouth drawn down. She was trying to be her immovable self, but her face of glass did nothing to hide her worry. She wrapped her arms tighter around their daughter in her lap. "What's happened?"

At his eyes flickering down to Ginny, then Beau on the floor at Augusta's feet, Augusta placed a kiss on the top of her head and placed her next to Beau, saying quietly, "I'll be right back." She crossed the room quickly, straight back tense, the swishing of her skirts the only sound as the children watched their mother leave. With her head high and her feet scuttling across the floor, no one would have ever guessed anything was amiss had they not seen her eyes.

"What's going on," she whispered when she reached the hall, pressing close to him. Goodnight wrapped an arm around her waist, letting his other hand nestle in her hair. Their world had been flipped upside down in a matter of minutes yet again. How was he supposed to tell her that he had no idea what was really happening? And if he didn't know that, how was he supposed to reassure her? This was the sole purpose of men, he thought, to keep women in comfort, and he was at a complete loss on how to do so.

 _Everything is perfectly fine_ , Goodnight wanted to say with a kiss to her head, but he'd never once lied to her. "Louisiana seceded. We'll probably join the Confederacy soon."

"Oh, dear God," she breathed, one hand immediately flying to the neckline of her bodice while the other tightened its grip on his vest. Augusta closed her eyes, mouth set in a thin line, and slowly released a shaky breath. When she opened them again, she'd regained all the grace and poise he'd ever known her to have.

000

The following evening, Goodnight and Augusta had their weekly dinner with Ames and Mathilde, and while dinner had been kept light, their drinks were anything but. It had started with Ames laughing over how fun it was to rile up the men of New Orleans, and then, like every other conversation recently, turned towards secession. And Goodnight and Ames held starkly different opinions.

"That's not the point, Ames."

"It's beside the point. We've left the Union, and that's that."

"But it's not _right!_ " Goodnight insisted, wishing with all his might that for once, for one goddamn time, that Ames could not take things at face value but would put thought into what was happening. "We're making this worse!"

"It's done, Goodnight—"

Slamming his glass down on the mantle and sloshing out its contents, Goodnight roared, "Goddamn it, Ames! Can you think for once? If we keep this up, we're headed for war, and I have a family to think about!"

Ames's face drained of color, and his angelic features twisted into something oddly mean and completely foreign. He snarled, "What, Goody, what are you saying? That I don't have a family? I'm married too, remember, you were the best man. And you think that I don't love Augusta and Beau, Ginny? That your family isn't as much mine as my own wife is? Well get your head out of the fucking clouds."

"That's not what I meant, Ames." Goodnight's voice softened, losing vigor as he realized how Ames had interpreted him, as he realized _he_ was making _this_ worse, he was the one riling up easy-going Ames to the point that he was spitting and gesturing madly. Of course Ames had family—he was part of Goodnight's family. "This state is preparing for war. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Oh, come off it! Like you have any idea what that means. I have news for you, Goody, we're on the same page for once. None of your fucking books can tell you what war is like. And you know what else? You're Goodnight goddamn Robicheaux. You think they're going to put you on the front lines, that you're going to be in any danger? No, you'll be an officer, and you'll be perfectly safe, and within a few months, you'll be back home with your _family_."

"That's not the point, Ames," Goodnight repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was so tired of hearing that sentiment, that because he was Goodnight Robicheaux he was untouchable. Maybe he was, but did that mean his wife and children would be safe if he left?

"Then what is, Goody? Because to be completely honest, I don't know what you're trying to get at. Sit _down_ , Mattie."

It was only when Mathilde sank back onto the sofa that Goodnight remembered their wives were in the room, witnessing every monstrosity that escaped their lips. Likely Augusta and Mathilde had never thought their husbands capable of such harsh words, of their voices reaching such a level of anger, and Goodnight couldn't bear the thought of seeing Augusta's reaction. He knew that if he looked in her eyes, he'd see the pedestal she'd put him on crumbling, and he couldn't let that happen.

"Get your coat, Augusta. We're leaving." When Augusta, eyes frightened and mouth hanging open, remained stunned on the sofa next to Mathilde, clutching her friend's hand, he snapped before he could catch himself, "Did you not hear me? Let's go!"

"Yes, Goody," she whispered, popping up and darting towards the hall with her head ducked.

As the realization of what he had done hit him, Goodnight glanced to Mathilde, hoping that maybe she still had some sense in her, but even the lively Mathilde Verret Rubadeau was subdued, her head ducked like Augusta's, hands folded tightly in her lap now Augusta's had been taken from her. Just before he slipped out of the parlor, he caught Ames's eye. The other man held it for just a moment before looking away, his face saying, _We've really messed up this time, but I'm too mad at you to fix it now._

Even while he helped her into her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck, Augusta didn't meet his eye but kept blinking rapidly, and Goodnight swallowed hard. He'd never said a single harsh thing to her, never even dreamed about doing it in his nightmares, and that…that hadn't just been harsh, he'd commanded her to get up and yelled at her when she hadn't immediately complied. That had been cruel. And the war hadn't even started.

The walk home was silent, and Goodnight's arm around Augusta's waist felt like a liberty he was not permitted to have. It was only when Mammy told Augusta about Beau ripping the knees from his pants again that Goodnight heard her voice, soft and tired. He followed her to the nursery, across the hall from their own room, trying to figure out a way to get her to speak to him. He wanted her to scold him for being so rude, yell at him, even hit him, anything besides the quiet dejection she was giving.

"Mama," Beau's sleepy voice drew Goodnight back to reality, and he turned from Ginny's crib to find Augusta sitting on the edge of their son's bed. Her long mane of curls, freed from the confinement of her net, spilled over her shoulder, and Goodnight watched with fondness as Beau, disoriented, reached his little hand for his mama's hair, knowing the feeling that came with having those curls in hand—a feeling he didn't think he would have anytime soon. "Thought you left, Mama."

"Oh, my baby," she whispered with the all tenderness only a mother could achieve, "I'd never do that. We were just with Uncle Ames and Aunt Mathilde."

Whatever else she murmured to him was unintelligible to anyone else besides Beau, and Goodnight turned away from them, back to the sleeping form of his daughter. The older she got, the more she looked like Augusta, and at the moment, Goodnight couldn't think of a more terrible blessing. He pushed back a few of her fine, baby curls, then brushed his knuckle across her soft, plush cheek. Maybe he hadn't wanted girls, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't enamored with his daughter.

At the sound of Augusta's swishing skirts, Goodnight slowly removed himself from Ginny's crib and followed her across the hall. They prepared for bed methodically, air around them stifling. Once Augusta had slipped out of her dress and crinolines, she sat down at the dressing table, her jewelry tinkling as she dropped it into the bowl.

Finally Goodnight couldn't stand the silence anymore. He knew he'd made a mistake, and not just any mistake, but he'd hurt his wife; and a gentleman always owned up to his mistakes. "Gus, I—"

"I forgive you," Augusta said quietly, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence.

"What," he asked, caught off guard. Her head was still ducked, and through the glass of her mirror, he watched her bite her lip. For a moment, he hoped she would cry—it would serve him right.

"I forgive you. There's so much going on right now, and you were upset with Ames, and I didn't obey you. It's alright, Goody."

"That doesn't make it right, Gus," he insisted, catching her eye through the mirror. She wasn't a dog, she didn't have to jump when he said. He'd always known she was perfectly capable of thinking for herself.

"I forgive you," she said again, moving to section her hair for a braid. But Goodnight didn't miss the fact she hadn't disagreed with him.

He didn't point that out. Instead, he slipped behind her and covered her hands with his own. When they'd first been married, he had worked diligently to hone his skill until he could braid as effortlessly as she could, and it had become one of his favorite parts of getting ready for bed. As time had passed, they'd slipped out of the habit, and Goodnight couldn't recall the last time he'd done it. But he sectioned it off gently and went about plaiting it down her back.

When he'd finished, Augusta smiled at him in the mirror, gentle and warm, and bending over, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, saying, "I don't want to fight with you, Gus."

"Let's go to bed, Goody."


End file.
